


Beside the King

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was a perfect son; strong, beautiful, modest, and wise beyond his years. His eyes glowed a crimson that was matched only by the blood of the dying sun as it set on a hot day, and they shimmered in the same way that setting sun shimmered on the horizon. They often looked out beyond the horizon, beyond the sun, beyond to some greatness no one could fathom.</p>
<p>However, as in all cases, there were things about him that were not quite so 'perfect' as they seemed. The way he acted, the way he walked, the way he spoke, even the way he gazed into the distance with some great wisdom... it was not any form of himself that was put into these actions. No, if you were to look back at that boy today, the one with hair that made gold seem washed out and silk seem like sandpaper, you would not recognize him as what he became though he still held the same startling beauty. </p>
<p>After all, who would think a modest village boy with a pretty face would become the most arrogant king to walk any world in all of history?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was a perfect son; strong, beautiful, modest, and wise beyond his years. His eyes glowed a crimson that was matched only by the blood of the dying sun as it set on a hot day, and they shimmered in the same way that setting sun shimmered on the horizon. They often looked out beyond the horizon, beyond the sun, beyond to some greatness no one could fathom.

            The people of his village praised him as if he were more than man, calling him two thirds god. Promised to the loveliest daughter of his village's leader with the guarantee that he would be the next head, it seemed as if his life's plan was as perfect as him.

            And, despite the fact that this type of perfectness often leads to envy, not a single villager had one bad thought about him. He was so perfectly modest that no one could bring themselves to dislike him. He was like a blessing for the village that was often overlooked by traveling merchants; they had never had someone as grand as him in their simple lives.

            However, as in all cases, there were things about him that were not quite so 'perfect' as they seemed. The way he acted, the way he walked, the way he spoke, even the way he gazed into the distance with some great wisdom... it was not any form of himself that was put into these actions. No, if you were to look back at that boy today, the one with hair that made gold seem washed out and silk seem like sandpaper, you would not recognize him as what he became though he still held the same startling beauty.

            After all, who would think a modest village boy with a pretty face would become the most arrogant king to walk any world in all of history?

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

            “Boy! Boy, you come here right now or you'll regret the day I first kissed your father.”

            The golden-haired boy moved with the grace of a lion across the sand, so sure-footed that not a grain of the whispering dust beneath his sandals found its way onto the worn leather. His face, which normally held a confident but gentle look, now held one of stony calm, and his scarlet eyes were as hard as the matching ruby sitting heavily at the base of his throat.

            “Forgive me for my lateness, Mother. I will not forget my place again.”

            It was a voice like honey, but instead of its usual lilting charm, it was utterly emotionless as he stared past the small woman in front of him, making it seem as if he were snubbing her but trying to act non-threatening at the same time.

            “If you don't look me in the eyes when you're speaking to me, I'll have your father's whip soaked in your blood before this night's over.”

            His jaw clenched but his eyes flickered to hers and he offered her a tight smile.

            “Of course. My insolence should not be tolerated. If you feel that my blood is necessary, I urge you to bathe in it.”

            The words were utterly sincere in and of themselves; not a hint of mocking traced them. Yet his mother's ears caught a hint of challenge that didn't exist. She often heard things in his voice, saw things in his eyes that didn't truly exist. She let out a hot breath and moved closer to him, her feet kicking up sand that spread throughout her sandals and made her steps feel gritty.

            The boy stiffened; his muscles tensing like a coiled spring, and there was a flash of something only his parents ever saw in his eyes; fear. But rather than fear, his mother beheld it as vulnerability. Mustn't every boy still be vulnerable before his mother when he was still only in his twelfth red moon's tide?

            “Please, mother, punish me with the whip. I deserve the whip.”

            Her lips parted and she exhaled noisily, her dark-coloured hands coming up to rest on his light-skinned bare chest. It was strange to have light skin in these parts, not unheard of, but still strange. And hair the colour of the sun; that was odd as well. His considerable height at the age he was along with his hair and skin made him an anomaly, with his only normal feature being his eyes. Irises the colour of blood were not uncommon in those parts.

            “You're so beautiful.”

            Her words came in out in a whisper filled with lust, and the boy's lips curled back in disgust as he turned his head away from her, looking out past the sturdy stone hut to his right and into the sandy wasteland, pretending that out there was where he was. He felt the woman's hands move slowly down his chest until they reached his stomach, where she slowly began to knead.

            “Such a delicacy in these parts.”

            She made him sound like some sort of food she was craving, and he closed his eyes to escape the view of her from his peripheral. It was true that many desired him; he was physically perfect and held a uniqueness that didn't detract from his physique. Though many slave traders sought dark-skinned boys, there were a few that treasured light-skinned above all else; rarer boys brought in larger incomes from those with odd cravings.

            “You may have your way with me, boy. I know you've desired me. I can see it in your eyes.”

            While it was true that his mother was striking for a woman of her age, 'having his way with her' was the last thing the boy wanted. He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and pictured himself far away. Far away from this woman, who would defile him as she had done many a time before. Far away from this house, which held the haunted memories of his screams. Far away from this town, where he pretended to be perfect while watching the rot and ruin of secrets behind closed doors creep through the cracks in the pleasant facade. Although overall, he would make a fantastic leader that embodied the town in a way no one could begin guess at; both him and the town were rotting from the inside out.

            “Please, Mother.”

            His voice was a hoarse whisper now, and it was begging for her to whip him and send him limping to his room instead of what she would force him to do. But, as always, she took it the wrong way. She tugged at the silk around his waist with one hand, her other hand coming up to wrap around his head and pull him down.

            His eyes flew open as she pressed her lips against his, kissing him messily and wetly. He felt his whole being tremble in disgust as she forced his lips open with her tongue and began sliding the silk cloth from his hips, downwards. He usually simply endured what she forced on him, as his father would do worse if he didn't obey her, but nearing teenage years gave him a rebellious streak that made him just brave enough to shove her from him.

            She gaped at him as he tugged the silk back to the proper spot on his hips and spat on the ground, wiping his mouth. He had never once laid a hand to her. He felt fear but also a strange exhilaration from defying her, and a certain morbid curiosity to see what her reaction would be. Her face began turning a strange red colour, blood rising to her face as her muddy eyes darkened.

            “Forgive me, Mother, but I honestly do not wish to have my way with you.”

            His brief spurt of sweet courage left him, replaced by immediate regret as he watched an expression come over her face like a cloud before the mightiest storm. Of course, as if sensing her dark fury from wherever he had been, the boy's father chose to appear exactly at that time.

            “My sweet, what is it that darkens your lovely face so?”

            The boy began to tremble now as his mother turned to his father, posing to launch into a tirade. It wasn't really his mother he was afraid of; had his father not been there, he would have left her long ago. No, it was his father that made him truly, wretchedly afraid. For where his mother was simply cruel, his father was cruel, sadistic, and brilliant. His father did things to him that made his nightmares seem like welcome dreams.

            “This... this... demon! He tried to seduce me! This disgusting thing forced my thoughts to be lustful towards him!”

            His father let out a heartfelt sigh as he turned to the boy, but the boy caught a manic glint of glee dancing through those black eyes.

            “Trying to seduce women is arrogant, boy, and arrogance is an affront to the gods. Now, being as perfect as you are, with the attention of the gods already on you, do you wish to offend them? If we do not punish you here for your arrogance, surely the gods will punish you for thinking yourself better than them.”

            The boy's mouth grew dry and he simply bowed his head, knowing better than to even try to speak. His father's lips quirked up slightly as he rested his large, strong hand on the shoulder of the boy's mother before stepping across the dry ground and using that hand to grasp the boy's hair in a fist. The boy's teeth clenched in pain as his father forced him towards the stone house, which still echoed with the screams of the last sadistic game his father had forced on him.

 

*~*~*~*~*

           

            The usually soft, golden hair was now matted with filth and blood as the boy lay on the hard-packed gritty floor inside the generously large hut, staring blankly at cold, tanned walls. Night had fallen and both of his parents had already fallen asleep in the next room, leaving him to lick his wounds in the smallest room of the hut, the only one without a richly woven carpet.

            He watched the shadows dance across the walls with empty eyes as children scampered around outside the square opening of the room, laughing. But he wouldn't join them, for he was a 'good' child. Good meaning he had been beaten and defiled to the point where he could no longer move to cause mischief. Where he no longer had any feeling in his heart, so he didn't care enough to drag himself from the floor. What was the point of getting up anymore?

            But he did get up, ignoring the fact that it was pointless. He held back a whimper, clutching at his bruised stomach as his nails scrabbled along the wall to find a grip with which to pull himself up.

            “Gods...”

            He glared through the hole in his window, his eyes lighting on the moon. His lips pulled back from his teeth in an animal snarl, warm crimson trailing down his legs from the lacerations on his thighs. It was his father's favourite place to hurt him; no one would see the scars hidden under his clothes.

            “You who let this happen to me...”

            His voice broke at the end, hoarse with pain. His eyes, which had been so blank for hours as he stared at the lifeless walls, now burned with an anger that turned the crimson to flames.

            “You who allowed a sin that I myself would never allow...”

            He straightened, a smear of blood from where his hand had scrabbled at the wall running from the ground almost to the opening.

            “I will never show modesty again if a so-called god is silent in the face of this sin! I am not equal to a god... I am above a god.”

            He continued to glare at the moon as long as he could, as if daring it to prove him wrong. The gentle light that fell across his face cast shadows which hid parts of his snarl and eyes, almost making him seem expressionless. Then his legs gave out and he sank to the floor, shooting a nervous glance towards his parent's room. Luckily for him, they were heavy sleepers; they did not awake in the face of his anger. Though the children outside had fallen silent.

            He cast his eyes to the moon once more, and now his dark expression faded into a deep sorrow that no child should know.

            “I will defy you until the day the sun no longer rises.”

            Then he bowed his head and wept until dawn came and the sun rose to mark another day.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

            The children called out 'Brother' and crowded around him as the boy walked slowly through the village, and a lovely smile that seemed to take in each and every child touched his lips.

            “What are you going to do today?”

            “Will you play with us?”

            “Bahja wants to marry you!”

            “Don't be stupid, Yusra, he's marrying Azra!”

            The children all dissolved into laughter, not noticing the fact that the boy's lips never changed from the ever-present smile, as if it was frozen on his face.

            The ever-present sand swirled that day, wind making the loose linen clothes dance and the cloth hung on long lines flutter. Women dressed in their whites, dark skin standing out in stark contrast, waved merrily to the boy and the crowd of children tugging at his clothes, arms, and hands. The boy inclined his head graciously, smile never slipping.

            Men preparing for a long day of digging and water-gathering clapped the boy on the shoulder with grins and words of praise. The boy's smile changed to modest, but he still never spoke. As the men passed him, they spoke among themselves of his greatness and modesty, praising him with all of their hearts.

            Underneath it all, he was reeling in disgust. How dare these filthy people lay their hands on him. How dare they pretend to be so pure and virtuous, while every one of them was doing horrible things behind closed doors. They were all just as bad as the gods, with their pretending and lies while they allowed sins and committed them.

            “My love, my life. How is your health on this fine day?”

            He had reached the middle of the town, the wealthiest part where the grey stone huts became glowing white houses. While the rest of the town huts were crowded with little room between them, some even leaning against each other like lovers watching the sunset, these expansive places of living stood stately, independent from one another. Some even had rooms above rooms, the flat roofs made from wooden beams overlaid with stone instead of the usual mats.

            This was also the most colourful part of the town; on the outskirts, people dressed in crisp white linen that often faded to a light gray or tan. Here the people dressed in rich, bright colours of silk; emerald veils, sapphire shawls, ruby midsection coverings, and gold, so much gold. Every woman had at least four golden earrings and an abundance of necklaces, while every man had at least one ring per finger. And, standing in the middle of the open square swirling with colours, was the boy's fiancée.

            Her hair was like ink, flowing black down her back and curling slightly at her waist, where it was gathered in a golden ringlet matching the one that sat on her brow like a crown. Her eyes were almost the colour of her hair, and they sparkled like great, obsidian jewels. Red silk matching the colour of the boy's eyes hugged her body lightly, with a shimmering veil covering the lower half of her delicate face. Her voice, the one that had spoken, was like music, falling and rising like an ocean tide. She was so stunning she could make sons of lords blush with a simple smile.

            “My health is wonderful, as are your eyes.”

            He often offered her such compliments, but his heart was never in them. Who knew what this girl did or allowed behind closed doors?

            Her laugh was like the tinkle of a bell as she grinned up at him lovingly.

            “My love, I was wondering if I could ask a favour of you without troubling you too much?”

            Ah, of course. Another woman trying to use her loveliness for favours.

            “Of course. Ask anything of me, Azra.”

            She inclined her head, tapping her chin thoughtfully. Had she simply asked him to toy with him? Her veil fluttered, making it seem like droplets of blood were scattering about her head as the rubies adorning it glinted in the light.

            “I would ask you to pick me a flower to match the colour of your eyes.”

            Matching. Always matching things to his eyes, as if his eyes were her favourite thing in the world. He nodded with a knowing smile.

            “I will do as you ask, then.”

            He could barely stomach staying in this area of rot for another minute—every official was corrupt. He gave a small bow, seeing yet not seeing the colours dancing through the air about him, and slipped into the crowd to escape the children around him.

            There were many paths out of the village and into the sand, and many places that were not paths that led out of the village. The boy chose one of these not-paths behind a great house and trotted with the confidence of a predatory cat, abandoning his meek, modest stroll for a quick, hard pace filled with grace. There were things the villagers didn't know about him that made him even greater than they imagined; he just downplayed himself so as not to give anyone more incentive to hate him.

            When he reached the edge of the village, the sand underfoot shifted so much it was impossible not to allow it to sift onto his shoes. So he removed them, dropped them by the side of the road, and fled to the desert on feet quick as starlight, not knowing exactly where he was going and not sure if he would come back.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

            He did, of course, come back. When his throat was parched and his muscles ached in that tingling, good way muscles do from a particularly satisfying workout, he turned towards the village and made his way back with an uncanny sense of direction. Slower this time, scanning the dunes for any sign of life.

            He hadn't managed to find flowers the colour of his eyes, but it mattered not as his fiancée always forgave him. No one had ever found flowers that colour; the only flowers remotely near the village were a lovely shade of white. Much more white than the plume of dark smoke rising from the direction of the village.

            His eyes widened a fraction and too many questions to count flashed through his mind, but he left them all behind as he ran with a speed greater than ever before, his feet eating the distance between him and the village with a rapid ferociousness.

            He remained silent, not calling out, wary with a feeling of unease he couldn't explain. As he reached the village, he slowed and squinted to see if he could see any signs of life.

            Certainly there were signs of death, but he couldn't make out a single live person. An image of him cursing the gods the night before rose to his mind, but he shoved it down with a thick swallow, stepping into the wide alley which he'd ran through to escape the village.

            The previously white house on the right side smoldered, the walls now tinged with an ashy grey, while the largest house in the village—the one on the left—was completely black with tongues of fire still coming from the windows. The boy covered his mouth and nose as a gut-wrenching stench assaulted him, one he'd never smelled before. Even a child as unfortunate as him had never had the smell of burning flesh and hair defile his senses.

            He continued making his way down the alley, glancing cautiously behind him, forgetting his shoes as he pressed himself close to the sooty wall on the right, edging his way down the alley stealthily as if expecting someone to jump out and make an attempt on his life. No one did, but when he came to the end of the alley and stepped out, he saw hell.

            The colours that had swirled through the square mere hours before were now replaced with black; the black of ash coating the shining houses, the black of soot mixing with the sand on the ground, and the black of the charred bodies piled in heaps around the square.

            His mouth hung open uselessly as he stumbled a step back, bile rising to his throat and spilling to the ground as he crouched over and retched, the image of the bodies burned into his eyes. From their positions, they had been alive when they were burned; people were twisted in agony, some with the soft pink of their mouths gaping out from their darkened skin in an O of horror.

            “H-hey...”

            His voice was high-pitched, frightened and childish, and it cracked to become even higher at the end. Tears welled up and turned the entire scene wobbly, like some sort of sick nightmare. They weren't people he had loved, or even liked really, but it was something that had become familiar over the years. To see them defecated beyond recognition like this churned his insides and he retched again, scrunching his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to continue looking at the charred remains.

            “Hey!”

            His voice trembled and he clapped a hand over his mouth to hold in a whimper. He opened his eyes slowly, as if they'd been crusted shut, placing his hands on the ground and taking deep breaths. He let out a long breath shakily and forced his quivering legs to hold his weight as he stood. He gave up breathing through his nose and forced calming puffs of air from his mouth.

            Search for survivors. That was the first step. He moved stiffly, jerkily, capping his emotions, bottling them, compartmentalizing them. His lovely, slim fingers which had never seen a day's work shoved charred bodies to the side as he dug for survivors, or even a face that wasn't beyond knowing. Bits of burned skin clung to his hands but he barely noticed; he focused his entire soul on the job at hand, pretending that he wasn't shifting through people he'd known his entire life.

            He found nothing. No one he could recognize, no one who would ever move again. He rose to his feet and glanced down the streets, knowing somewhere in his heart that it would be ridiculous to dig through every pile; they were all dead. In a daze, he let his feet carry him wherever they wanted to go. It didn't matter; his head was detached from his body.

            He began to shiver as he walked, and he wrapped his arms around himself. The town was flooded in heat but he couldn't keep warm. His lips began to fade to a bluish tinge as he glanced around numbly. Every house had been razed, not a single hut, shack or house left whole. Pieces of ash drifted down gently from the sky like the snow he'd heard so much about. They settled softly in his hair, but he didn't notice. He continued rubbing his hands over his arms.

            He passed the house of the village's head; rather than being destroyed, the building had simply ceased to exist. Not even the skeleton of the building remained, only black smudges with charred rocks crumbled about it. Fire could not destroy a building so completely. Only humans could kill something until it ceased to exist.

            His feet finally stopped and he looked up sleepily to see where they had brought him. Of course. It was his home. Or rather, the building he'd been living in since his birth. And it was charred as well, charred to its dark bones. It was rather comedic; the outside finally reflected what went on in the inside. He let out a low chuckle.

            “Ridiculous.”

            His own voice made him jump, but only for a moment; his eyelids drooped again and he yawned in fatigue. He was about to turn and walk somewhere else when he heard a noise.

            “B...oy...”

            The crimson that had been partially eclipsed by thick blond lashes showed itself fully as his eyes widened and he turned to see the man who had raised him lying in a pool of darkening blood mere feet from the burning house. The man lay on crushed white flowers that had been dyed the same crimson as the boy's eyes from his lifeblood.

            “Father?”

            The boy shook his head roughly, trying to rouse himself from the webs covering his mind. He slipped along the sand and knelt down beside the man, feeling the stickiness soaked into the sand mesh against his knees.

            “He...lp... Go... ge...t...hel...p...”

            “Father, I...”

            What? What would he say? That there was no help to be found? He hadn't searched the town yet, so maybe there were people roaming aimlessly the way he had, but there were so many bodies that he doubted it. And besides....

            He ran his eyes over his father. The man's clothes had been dyed a rusty colour by the old blood, originating from a huge lance through his midsection. The shaft was impressively thick and mottled black and grey, and when the boy knelt down to see how deep it had gone, he knew his father would not live much longer; underneath his father's arched back, the shaft continued into the ground to the point where he couldn't even see the head of it. He sat back up and shook his head slowly at his father.

            “You're going to die.”

            He stated it simply, emotionless. He felt nothing saying it, though children were supposed to cry when their parents died.

            His father's eyes opened a fraction wider and for the first time, he saw a flicker of fear in the cruel man's eyes.

            “Boy, you....d-don't... kn...ow... find... s...ome...one...”

            It was true that he had no formal medical knowledge, but his intelligence surpassed all but perhaps his father in this village, so he knew there was no way to save the man. Perhaps... perhaps if he found a healer, they could ease the man's passing. The man was obviously in pain, his breathing laboured and every breath making him wince. Blood bubbled on his lips when he spoke, and his eyes shone with a feverish light. Perhaps the boy could even somehow find a magic user—a magic user strong enough may give his father life.

            “I could.”

            There was something in his voice that made the man stiffen, that made the fear in his eyes grow deeper. The boy stood up and looked down on the man, his eyes changing from frantic to contemplative. Yes, it was possible to bring his father back from the brink of death, he was sure. But... did he want to?

            “Y...ou... bet...ter... li...sten...bo...y...”

            The note of threatening in his voice was dimmed by the quaver at the end. The boy watched him a moment longer, and then his mouth curled into a smile—a real, cruel smile.

            “Father, you never gave me a name.”

            The man blinked in confusion as brightness spilled down the sides of his cheeks, dribbled off his chin in bubbles.

            “Every single adult calls me 'boy' and the children call me 'Brother.' Why didn't you give me a name?”

            His father turned his head slightly, wincing with the action, as if wondering why the boy would even ask at a time like this. The boy let out a sigh and crouched down again. His slender fingers, bits of charred flesh dropping from them, reached out and wrapped around the shaft of the lance.

            “You're a fool, Father. I hate you.”

            The man's eyes bugged as the boy began to twist the shaft, digging it deeper into his skin. He let out a strangled wail of pain, his back arching higher and his mouth flapping soundlessly like a fish out of water. New blood trickled, then streamed from the wound as the scabs covering it were ripped off mercilessly.

            The boy watched it all with an expression of extreme satisfaction. Finally, he could inflict a small measure of the pain his father had inflicted on him back on the man himself. Tears streamed from his father's eyes, but they weren't enough to satisfy the boy's desire for revenge. He twisted the shaft further, making his father's wailing cry raise like a tide into a scream.

            “If you won't give me a name, I'll give myself a name.”

            With a sharp tug, the boy pulled the lance from his father's stomach, earning a scream that shook the heavens, filled with an agony that would make demons weep.

            “With my new name, I will be reborn.”

            The scream ended in a gurgling howl, then became a simple gurgle as blood frothed from the man's lips. The boy examined the blood on the end of the war instrument, then flicked his eyes to his father. Now, rather than fear or contemplation, they held a great, terrible hatred. The red was deep, bottomless, and it absorbed all light as if it were the deepest pit of the most agonizing hell. The boy's father trembled as he realized what his son had become; what he had turned the boy into.

            “With this, I will be greater than any mortal man. With this, I cut my shackles and free myself from the cage.”

            He raised the lance high above his head, his burning eyes consuming the man's soul.

            “Through your blood, Father, I am born anew.”

            He brought the spear down with a mighty force that made gods stir nervously and mages from around the world shift uneasily. It wasn't the force of any mortal; there was dark treachery in the thrust, black magic that made the pure of heart flinch though they were leagues away.

            “Here I name myself!”

            The force of the thrust didn't simply pierce his father's skull; it shattered it so fragments of bone made sickening sounds as they flew from where they were supposed to be. Brain matter scattered about around the man's body, landing with soft sounds hushed by the sand. Blood rained upwards and down, and the boy stood, bathing in the droplets that struck his skin.

            A deep silence descended from all around, only the crackling of slowly dying embers making it seem as if something existed. The boy looked down at his father, now no more than a pierced body with a faceless, broken skull.

            “My name will be revered by mortals and feared by gods.”

            His hushed whisper blew away in the wind, and he willed the wind to carry his words to the gods themselves, for surely they were next on his list of bugs to crush. His house slowly crumbled to the ground, the last remnants of his caged life disappearing.

            “I here and now name myself a name that will come to be the definition of arrogance and pride.”

            He turned his back on the broken cage, rolling his shoulders back as a slow smile crawled over his face. It wasn't gentle, generous or kind.

            “King among kings.”

            It was less than outright delight, pure joy, or deep happiness.

            “Lord among lords.”

            But it was more than self-satisfaction, smugness or complacency.

            “Greater than any who will ever exist, I name myself the golden king...”

            He paused, and it seemed for a second that he would turn and give his crumbling life one last glance before it blew away as ashes in the wind. But he didn't look back; his smile of complete and total arrogance simply grew, and he sauntered down the path alone, bare feet parting hot sand.

            “Gilgamesh.”


	2. Chapter 2

Despite this impressive naming, Gilgamesh was still just a boy—albeit a talented one, but a boy nonetheless—with nothing to his name. His entire livelihood had been destroyed by whoever had passed through, and when he searched among the wreckage outside the town for water, he found the wells soured by desecrated bodies. Someone had been planning to raze this town in a way that ensured none could live there again.

            He pondered at the fate of his mother, but ultimately decided that she had either been in one of the heaps, or in one of the wells. He shoved the thought away as he moved into the wasteland.

            The dunes were always shifting and sliding, so many people became lost and died of thirst among them. Townspeople said that if you walked a day in any direction, you would find bones bleached white from sun and picked clean by scavenging birds, and if you continued walking you would number among them.

            Gilgamesh had gone far into the changing landscape many a time before, his sense of direction never failing to lead him home, but he hadn't the slightest idea of how to get elsewhere. The nearest village was a two day walk in some direction, but no one was ever too sure which direction because no one ever left the town.

            He still maintained his stance of not looking back, but his heart sank and he felt fingers of uncertainty curl around his heart as the hot, dry wind picked up. He couldn't bear it if he went so far as to kill his father and choose his own path only to die of thirst merely days later. But there was nothing else to do but walk on.

            He squinted at the setting sun for a second before giving a terse nod and moving further into what would become another hell for him in the days to come.

            The sun had warmed the sand underfoot throughout the day, but his soles were tough from years of walking on sand hot as coals so it bothered him none. His feet sank in the shifting ground, slipping among the grains in a way that was reassuring and comforting, familiar. He shot another glance at the sun and picked up his pace to a comfortable trot that allowed him to move quickly but not expend any of his water through sweat.

            He moved over dunes as he continued on, the sun sinking rapidly and the coolness of night beginning to cover the land like a cloak. The wind stirred again and this time it carried something with it that he caught out of the corner of his eye. He turned and his hand instinctively snaked out to grab the thing rippling and swirling through the air.

            His eyes widened slightly as he stared down at what he held in his bloodstained hand. A veil the colour of his eyes, matching the stains that were scattered across his hands and face. Adorned with small shards of glittering rubies, it sparkled prettily when he turned it and the faint light of the rising moon caught it.

            He brought it slowly to his face, closing his eyes and inhaling. The scent of perfume, lily and woman tickled his senses, and it for a second it smelled so achingly familiar that he almost lost himself in memories. Memories of a boy in his sixth red moon tide tugging a young raven-haired girl behind him, laughing. Memories of laying in the sand and pointing out clouds that resembled animals with the girl. Memories of the girl comparing cloth to his eyes and begging her father to buy her some so she could make clothes that complemented him. Memories of a time when his parents simply beat him, before he lost his youthful look and became something that inspired a disgusting lust within them. Innocence.

            He cut his thoughts sharply there, forcing them away from times that, though harsh, resembled a warm blanket of comfort. He had loved people back then, because he had believed that he'd deserved to be beaten for some reason so it wasn't too bad. But when his parents moved on to things worse than a beating, he realized just how wrong he had been. And then he had walked by doors with new ears, and when he heard the yelling that he imagined would turn into worse later, he had realized that all people were evil. Behind closed doors, every person did horrible things. After that, he emotionally distanced himself from all, including the girl.

            However... the girl had indirectly saved his life. When Azra had told him to pick flowers that didn't exist, she'd ensured his survival. So he wrapped the veil around his head, weaving it deftly until only his eyes showed. His eyes and some stray locks of gold. Then he continued his trek, the rich silk brushing across his lips the whole time.

*~*~*~*~*

            The sun began to rise to mark the start of an early day when Gilgamesh had to stop from fatigue. He had previously forgotten his tiredness with shock, but now he realized that he had more or less been moving quickly for a day and night. His toned legs felt as if they were made of pudding, and his eyelids drooped. When he tried to force himself to keep going, he stumbled and almost fell in exhaustion.

            He looked around tiredly for somewhere to sleep. On all sides the sun began to light the dunes orange, making it seem as if he were in the middle of a sea of fire. He squinted, immediately regretting the fact that he hadn't brought some form of eye protection. The sun reflecting from the sand could blind someone if they weren't accustomed to it, and injure their eyes if they were. Soon the air would grow hazy with heat and he'd also forgotten clothes to cover himself with to avoid sunburn. Even locals became sunburned if they stayed in the middle of the desert for too long a time.

            His eyes roamed over all of this and these thoughts flashed through his head in seconds. Then he realized the most immediate problem, save his thirst; sleeping in the middle of the sandy wasteland with no cover would kill him. The sun would burn him until he could move no longer, or the small creatures that lived just beneath the sand would awaken from the smell of his flesh and consume him.

            He cursed his stupidity, forcing his feet to move, though he could only manage a slow shuffle. He heard the cries of birds and looked overhead to see great vultures circling him, wheeling lower than he'd ever seen them wheel when he had ran healthily to and from his village.

            He paused to narrow his eyes in a glare.

            “Leave.”

            The word cracked through the air like a whip, the voice an absolute command expecting total submission. Though the vultures were simple animals, they could hear the warning and authority, and they let out angry screeches before wheeling away.

            Gilgamesh let out a slight sigh, slumping and continuing his shuffle. At least the scavengers obeyed him; he doubted he'd get the chance to make anyone else do the same.

            The swollen sun rose higher and the low whine of insects began as heat made the air just meters in front of him shimmer. He had gone without water for two and a half days once, but he also hadn't been traveling through the thick of the desert heat. When he had begun, the night had been cooling things but now things would only get hotter and sweat was already beginning to trickle down his forehead. The flecks of blood from his father's death were now dark on his body and they slowly flaked off as he walked.

            He pulled the veil tighter around his face, but it was so light that he could feel the sun reaching his skin through it. The sun touched every single part of the wasteland, leaving not one part shaded in which he could rest. He uttered a low curse under his breath, already feeling the heat sink into his skin. Being light-skinned, he had always been more prone to burning than others.        

            His eyes roamed desperately over the scenery, wondering if turning back and combing the burned houses for some sort of salvaged drink would be a viable option. But he had been walking for too long; now all scenery had been shifted and all dunes looked the same. A cold wave of panic made his spine tingle as he realized that the desert had him, that he had no way of knowing whether or not he was walking in circles.

            His shuffling increased despite his exhaustion, and he felt his chest constrict. No matter how fast he breathed or how much dry air he drew into his lungs, it felt like it wasn't enough. He stumbled forward, his feet slipping, and let out a gasp as something sharp sliced along his foot. He fell to the ground with a hiss of pain and turned around.

            He had never imagined that the stories of deceased travelers were true, but with definitive proof before him it was a truth he could no longer deny. The sharpness that had pierced his foot was a broken bone, probably a forearm, he noted, of a human. He blinked slowly then let out a hoarse scream and scrambled back, his blood soaking into the sand from his foot.

            His breathing sped up until he was hyperventilating, and the world began to spin before his eyes. No matter how many gulps of oxygen he drew in, it wasn't enough, until he was gasping and feeling as if no air had filled his lungs at all. He clawed at his throat, his eyes wide and stricken on the bleached white shard sticking up from the sand.

            He probably would've continued hyperventilating until he passed out, but when he tried to scramble back again his hand touched something that wasn't sand. His shock was so great it shook him out of his panic and he glanced behind him at what he'd touched.

            A boy who looked to be about his age lay on the ground, head half buried in sand. His skin was much darker than Gilgamesh's, but still lighter than many other locals surrounding the desert. Coffee coloured hair covered the half of his face that wasn't covered in sand, long enough to brush the very top of his collarbone, which stuck out rather piteously from his scrawny body.

            Gilgamesh turned his entire body, forgetting the bone and his wound, and peered closer at the boy. His hand had brushed the boy's arm, which had felt dry and warm. He'd heard corpses were cold, though the burned victims of his village obviously weren't. He reached out and brushed the hair from the boy's face, frowning as eyelashes thicker and longer than any man's should be were exposed.

            “I could sell you for a nice price.”

            He didn't really mean it; he had no idea how people came about selling boys, but he wanted to say something to see if it would rouse the lump in front of him. The boy didn't move.

            Gilgamesh let out an annoyed breath and grasped the sides of the boy’s face roughly, turning his head so it was out of the sand. Grains of the wasteland's soil still stuck to his face like day old stubble and Gilgamesh made a face as if angered that the sand would dare do something he didn't wish it to do.

            “Wake up.”

            He slapped the sides of the boy's cheeks lightly, making grains fall from his face, but the boy never stirred. His cracked lips remained open and his body remained limp. Gilgamesh brought his ear down to the boy's mouth to hear if any breath was escaping his lips. It didn't seem as if there was.

            He was about to lean back when a lock of hair escaped the veil and fell onto the boy's upper lip. It should've been of little consequence but all of a sudden the boy's head twisted up. Gilgamesh jerked back just in time, hearing the audible snap of teeth millimeters from where his ear had just been. He stared at the boy in shock, covering his ear with one hand as if taken back.

            “I was trying to assist you, fool!”

            But he quickly discerned from the way the boy slumped back to the ground that it had simply been a reflex. Well, at least he was certain the boy's life was still intact.

            “How dare you fall back into oblivion after almost taking my ear.”

            He knew his voice would go unheard, but in this barren place where his only company was nature that worked towards his demise, it pleased him slightly to be able to speak to someone. Even if that someone was unconscious.

            He cursed his own foolishness as he moved from a crouch onto his knees, then reached down and to grab a tanned arm and slip it over his shoulder. It was probably a death wish to bring a half-wild boy who looked to have never seen water in his life along, but there was something about him Gilgamesh couldn't ignore.

            Lying out in the open sun in a desert with no doors to hide anything, there was something honest about the boy that Gilgamesh couldn't let be. It seemed like he could never trust anything in his life, but a helpless boy who had no connection with anyone appeared a good way to start.

            “If I die because of you, you will know my fury in the underworld.”

            A derisive chuckle at himself stole its way from his lips as he hefted the boy higher onto his shoulder and stood. The lack of weight was surprising, but not too much so; there was really not much to him save skin and bones.

            With a renewed purpose, Gilgamesh walked forward, forgetting the pain of his sliced foot for the moment; he had endured much worse. The sun had now risen high in the sky and beat down with a ferocity that made Gilgamesh's lips dry almost to the degree of the half-dead waif's. He ran his tongue across them in an attempt to dry them, his feet sliding forward more than being placed one in front of the other now.

            The wind picked up as his fatigue did yet again, blowing grit into his eyes. He squinted as tears streamed from them, barely able to see in front of him. It didn't matter though; what was there to see but more sand?

            With his head satisfactorily cleared from panic, he could now think straight and kept the sun in his view, allowing it to guide him in a straight line. Walking in a straight line was the best he could do to try and find the edge of this never-ending lifeless wild. The question wasn't whether or not the sand would ever end or at least give way to habitation, but rather when it would end. From the state of him and his companion, Gilgamesh guessed one more day would be the latest they could hope to reach habitation alive.

            “You'd better not die before me, fool. I won't have my sweat wasted on a corpse.”

            Talking kept him from panicking the way he had before, though it couldn't keep him from feeling death closing in from every side. A shadow passed over his face and he knew without looking up that the vultures had returned, interested not only in him but in the carrion he carried.

            “I won't be feasted on by the likes of you.”

            His statement was not nearly as sharp as it had been.

            He continued his exhausted trek until he heard a sound, a huge sound like the roaring of a lion. The wind picked up suddenly so much that he had to stop and cover his eyes with his free arm to stop sand from filling them. He waited for a while for the wind to die down but it didn't. Not only did the air continue tugging at his veil and clothes, but the roaring sound grew louder. His mind, which had faded to a numbness, suddenly perked up slightly with the memory of a tale a traveling merchant had told.

            “They say that when the gods truly want to destroy someone, they will conjure up a beast fashioned from the same air we breathe. However, this beast will bring air in greater quantities than we could ever imagine. It will make the wind dance like wildfire, and anything not tethered will be blown away in a village such as this one. If the one they want to bring death upon is in the wasteland outside of this village, though, that person will suffer a death even worse than being torn apart by this creature.”

            Gilgamesh slowly lowered his arm and turned his head to look over his shoulder. His eyes widened a fraction, and his mouth grew so dry that licking his hot, cracked lips moisturized his tongue rather than lips.

            “When the beast travels across sand, the sand obeys it like water obeys a sea-nymph. Like a tsunami, a great wave that wipes cities off the map with the destructive force of a thousand armed men, the sand will raise about the beast in a wave taller than five houses on top of one another. Any man caught in that wave will drown in sand the way he'd drown in water, though the pain of grittiness in the lungs will be greater than any smooth water ever could be.”

            He had never really believed the part about the beast, but as he watched the sand surge forward as a terrible, unstoppable force, he was half tempted to. It swirled higher than anything he'd ever seen, as thick as the walls from his house, thicker. The sound it made, a roaring, rasping sound like a great giant snake, struck a deep fear he'd never known into his heart. It wasn't like the fear of being beaten or the fear of pain. No, it was a much deeper, primordial fear; the same fear a mouse feels when it hears the cry of a hawk overhead.

            The more he watched, the deeper that fear grew as he knew with great certainty that this was something he couldn't run from, nor hide from. It stretched so far in either direction that he felt it stretched an eternity across the entire world.

            He closed his eyes, half tempted to utter a prayer. That was, in hindsight, what ultimately saved his life. Not the prayer itself, no, it was his hatred of the gods who had allowed him to be in such a situation. He realized what he'd been about to do and his eyes opened with a calmness that no mortal should be able to muster in the face of such a force of nature.

            “Wind.”

            His voice was raspy from lack of water, raspy and low, drowned out by the roar of the sand, but he spoke nonetheless. A quiet confidence radiated from him as he turned his full body—still holding tightly to the boy who was slumped as if dead—and spoke directly to the roaring wall in front of him.       

            “You will hear my voice.”

            There was a dark intensity in his voice that would send shivers down the spines of most.

            “You, who the people of this land claim has the most freedom. You, who they say none can control. You, who can create such forces as this which they say can destroy cities and move mountains.”

            He paused, watching the wall advance on him like a great predator advances on prey. The wind was so great at this point that it threatened to tear his veil from his face. He closed his eyes on it all, reaching up with his free hand to cover the eyes of the boy he was carrying so sand wouldn't get into them if he opened them for some reason, and resumed his speaking.

            “You have all of these claims to your name but none of them are true!”

            His voice danced not over the wind but in time with it. It swirled where the wind swirled and it rose where the wind rose. As if to deny his claim, the wind blew harder so that grains of sand struck him so hard they stung his skin.

            “I've heard of the mages to the west! I know they hold power over you that you can't fight!”

            The wind howled its fury, and the roaring of the approaching wall grew to an almost unbearable amount.

            “That's why I say to you, not as your master or servant, but as an equal who was once caged and is now free, do not take my life!”

            Though his voice had not yet deepened to one of a man, it held a weight that most men could only dream of. Truth was almost so tangible in his voice that it could be heard—he honestly thought in the depths of his soul that he was equal to the wind.

            “For with your aid, if I live, I'll do everything in my power to bring down the hierarchy of mages who practice control over the elements! I swear on my life, the thing most important to me in this world, that I will free you!”

            It was a dangerous gamble. Half of the stories said the wind had a will and spirit of its own, and half said it didn't. Gilgamesh, though skeptical about most things, secretly believed that it was true. There was something... alive... about the wind. It was a feeling, impossible to explain, but he felt as if the wind had some sort of reason to it. The way it moved across the wasteland felt purposeful, as if it were going somewhere.

            However, that was only the first half of the gamble. No one had ever told him directly that the mages to the west controlled the wind—he had made an assumption. They said that the mages in the Association could make things float with a wave of their hand, knock a person over with a look, blast things twenty feet back with a gesture. In his mind, a mind that only knew things of small towns, he had simply figured they were controlling the wind. What other force could do those things? And the town leader had always said something couldn't be created from nothing, so whatever force allowed the mages to do such things must already exist. A large leap, but not impossible.

            “I do this if for no other reason than that I hate those who choose to cage things.”

            He hadn't meant for the thought to escape his mind, but it was past his lips before he knew it. He furrowed his brow in annoyance of his mouth speaking before he had time to filter it. And that was when he realized why his whisper had been so loud—the whole world seemed to have gone silent.

            He slowly lowered his hand from the boy's eyes as his own widened in shock. The vast wall of stand stood before him. Or, more accurately, around him. All around him and the boy swirled more sand than he'd thought was possible to exist, even after living in a sandy wasteland. And it was incredibly beautiful.

            Ripples of colours fought for dominance throughout the wall—browns, bays, oranges, golds, each one flashing for a moment and then disappearing back into the wall to scatter throughout the wave. The sun overhead lit up certain parts that were thinner than others, lending it a certain depth that made it seem like a wave flowing smoothly, and the way the movement flowed yet clashed with the other movements throughout made the wall alive, a living creature larger than the entirety of the desert writhing over the sand.

            Gilgamesh turned slowly to take it in, forgetting himself and showing for the first time some form of boyish wonderment common at his age.

            “Amazing...”

            A delighted smile blossomed on his face that transformed him from deeply beautiful to innocently lovely. In that moment, an understanding formed between him and the wind, and they loved each other. He had never loved anyone or anything before, and it made his smile glow all the brighter. From that moment on, Gilgamesh and the wind became companions, and the bond that formed between them could be broken by none on that earth.


	3. Chapter 3

The storm of sand ended far from where Gilgamesh sat, so far that he didn't see it end. Even if it had been close enough, however, he probably wouldn't have noticed because he was too busy desperately drinking from a tiny trickle of a river that ran through some part of the desert.

            Once the pact between the wind and himself had been made and the storm had passed over, Gilgamesh almost collapsed from fatigue and thirst. The only thing that had kept him up was the wind, and it had pushed and shoved him roughly from behind. He was too tired to wonder at what it meant; he simply stumbled forward.

            It turned out the wind truly believed he could destroy the mage's power, so in order to keep him alive it brought him, dragging the boy he'd found, to a small river about one man-height wide and knee deep. As soon as he'd reached it, he'd carefully removed his veil, tying it around his wrist, and he'd drunk deeply, uncaring if it was purified or not. He'd drunk until his stomach was so full it emptied to the ground, then he'd drunk more.

            Now he sat, thirst quenched, wondering how to get water to the unconscious boy. The boy's breaths came in shallow, raspy draws, and his lips were cracked and bloodless. He'd tried to dribble water down the boy's throat from cupped hands, but it had streamed out the side of the boy's lips.

            “It would be much better if you'd just wake up.”

            Though he'd gotten something to drink and had been resting for the better part of an hour, he was still irritable from lack of sleep and hunger. After drinking and satisfying his thirst, he'd realized just how hungry he was; it had been three days since he'd had his last meal and it had only been dark bread with a generous slice of cheese.

            He glared down at the boy as if his plight was of the boy's doing, then he sighed and scooped up more water, pouring it over the boy's mouth to moisten his lips. He looked at the boy for a long while, judging his worth before making another decision which made him sigh heavily.

            He dipped his hands in the brackish water and, grumbling, brought it to his own lips. He took a warm mouthful and held it in his mouth, then reached down to tilt the boy's head up. He pressed his lips against the boy's, forcing them open, and let the water from his mouth trickle into the boy's. When the boy let out a sharp cough, sending some water back into Gilgamesh's mouth, Gilgamesh leapt back with a disgusted snort.

            He hadn't been opposed to the idea because he thought of it as an indirect kiss—the thought had never even occurred to him—but because the thought of touching something as sacred as his mouth with another human 3 who was less than him disgusted him. Though the disgust was nothing compared to how he'd felt when his mother's mouth touched him.

            The boy coughed heavily, spluttering, then turned his eyes to the river beside him and crawled over, bending his head down to drink it the way an animal would. He dunked his whole head in the river and his whole body shook with the amount of water he gulped down. Then he turned and retched, before lowering his head again.

            Gilgamesh watched it all with an impassive look. He'd done much the same so he couldn't act disgusted; he simply waited for the boy to be done. As the boy drank, he examined him closer. Though he was excessively skinny, there were faint muscles throughout his body that suggested the boy knew hard work, and callouses on the dark hands that dug into the sand strengthened the notion. He still hadn't said a word, but he didn't need to for Gilgamesh to sense a sort of wildness about him, the same an animal who'd never been around humans would have. With no shoes, a shirt or anything covering his legs below his thighs, he looked truly wild.

            Gilgamesh yawned and sat in the sand, shifting so the bare parts of his skin didn't touch the scorching ground. Now that he had time to think, he realized he hadn't bothered to check the cut on his foot, which had been bothering him for quite some time, so he brought his foot into his lap to examine it, brushing off grains of sand.

            He let out a strangled gasp, his face paling. It had swollen into an angry red, and pus gathered around the edges of the cut, leaking slightly. He swallowed thickly, pressing a finger onto it and pulling it back with a hiss. It was warm to the touch, and more painful than he'd realized when it had been numbed by the pain from hot sand underfoot.

            The wind swirled around his foot as if concerned, and then picked up in anger. He wasn't sure if it was angry with him or the cut, but it was angry nonetheless.

            “Rot-foot. I do believe I made enemies of the gods that night.”

            A low, self-deprecating chuckle escaped his lips as he shrugged bitterly; surely this was one thing he could not talk his way out of. Unless...

            Cutting his foot off was beginning to seem like a viable option when strong hands suddenly grabbed his throat. He was mentally surprised but his body reacted on its own, hands shooting out to meet with soft flesh. The boy he'd saved let out a low grunt but that was it; he shoved Gilgamesh to the ground and straddled him, squeezing his throat even tighter as Gilgamesh clawed frantically at his hands, his face the picture of confusion.

            The boy's lips were curled back in an animal snarl, his eyes which had seemed the same colour as the sand now darkening to a bronze.

            Black specks began to dance before Gilgamesh's eyes as his hands weakened, but before he passed out, the wind roared and threw the boy from him with the force of a tornado. The boy tumbled straight into the water, sending droplets scattering through the air, and then stayed frozen as if he couldn't believe what had just happened.

            The wind teased Gilgamesh's hair as he shook his head to clear it and sat up, wiping himself off with a dirty glare towards the boy. His throat ached but his father had brought him so close to death using the same means that he was used to it.

            “Who...”

            His voice was filled with a low fury and just a touch of righteous indignation.

            “...do you think you are?”

            The boy tilted his head to one side, his snarl replaced with a thoughtful look as he watched the wind play around Gilgamesh without moving a single grain of sand. When he tried to rise, he was pushed back down again by the unseen force he realized to be the very air he breathed. Instead of seeming annoyed, however, an amused grin crossed his face.

            “What's with that look?”

            The boy let out a low laugh, a rumble straight from his chest. Gilgamesh stood and felt a flash of annoyance that this boy's voice had changed before his. It made his voice seem boyish, less intimidating than this scrawny creature in front of him.

            “The wind likes you. I've never met anyone liked so much by the wind before. It's a strange sight to behold, especially since it's a light-skin like you.”

            The boy's voice had a rich ring to it. It was kind of voice that you'd want to urge to keep talking, uncaring of what it was saying, because it was so fascinating. The wind itself quieted down enough for the boy to stand up because it was so busy listening to his voice. Gilgamesh felt his annoyance go deeper. This boy in front of him was someone he would never get along with as long as he lived, he was sure.

            “The wind likes me because I'm a fantastic person. As should you, considering the fact that I saved your life.”

            He looked down his nose at the boy, which was quite hard to do considering the fact that the boy stood a head taller than him. The boy snorted, rolling his eyes.

            “You think I should feel grateful to some noble's bratty son who got lost in the desert and decided to pick me up because his father told him one good deed a day would make the gods favour him?”

            Gilgamesh wished the wind would blow the boy over again, but he doubted the wind would—for whatever reason, it seemed to have taken a liking to this barely-human creature in front of him. He wondered briefly why the boy would think he was a noble's son. Though his clothes were silk, the only jewelry he owned was a large ruby around his neck on a thick black cord, given to him by the village's leader when it was announced that he would be taking over as next leader.

            “Do not speak of the gods in my presence, you filthy mutt.”

            His spoke sharply, his eyes dancing in anger like fire.

            Surprise bloomed on the boy's face like a flower on a hot day, which then faded into mild anger. The boy shook his dark hair like a dog would, sending glittering droplets flying, then stepped from the water to tower over Gilgamesh.

            “Don't say mutt so spitefully, boy, or I'll have your tongue for insulting wild dogs.”          

            At the word boy, Gilgamesh had stiffened and his fists had clenched tightly, almost enough to draw blood. He would've swung a nice right hook straight on the boy's smug jaw, but stiffening had caused his foot to fall flat onto the sand so he let out a cry of pain and dropped to the ground to clutch it instead. The boy looked surprised for a second time that day.

            “What, were you injured?”

            Tears threatened to fall from Gilgamesh's eyes as he bit back a number of scathing comments, some shameful enough for a normal mother to box a boy's ears. He settled instead for a sarcastic comment, hoping it would be enough to distract the beast-man in front of him from his tears.

            “Oh no, I wasn't injured, I just happened to think of the time you were unconscious and it made me regret the fact that I ever thought that was a bad thing so much that I couldn't hold back the pain.”

            The boy studied his face for a moment while Gilgamesh glared stubbornly back, smoothing his face the way he'd taught himself to the first time he'd walked through the village after his father had whipped him. The wind twirled worriedly about him, lifting grains of sand from his swollen wound gently and tugging at the boy to examine it. Gilgamesh scowled, wishing he could berate the wind but not exactly sure how.

            The boy finally shrugged and grabbed Gilgamesh's foot in one strong hand without warning, making Gilgamesh yelp in shock and pain. Hot tears ran down his face and he clenched his teeth in pain, squeezing his eyes shut to stop more tears from leaking out.

            “You seem pretty injured to me.”

            He would've replied but he was using all of his energy and concentration not to cry, so he shot the boy a tearful glare.

            “Don't t-touch me, f-filth.”

            His wavering voice wasn't very convincing, and the boy completely ignored him as he began to probe the wound with surprisingly gentle fingers.

            “There must've been sickness on whatever you stepped on. Rot-foot doesn't get this bad in the amount of time you had.” Noticing Gilgamesh's wondering look he added, “Yes, I know it was less than a day since you stepped on it—anymore and I'd be dead. I doubt you care too much but I hadn't had a drink in three days. Now tell me, are you tired?”

            Gilgamesh opened his mouth to lash out at the boy but then realized how foolish a thing it would be to do if there was a possibility this boy could save his life. He looked away with a wince that wasn't just from the burning pain, feeling his entire body grow hot in embarrassment.

            “Yes, but that isn't the best indicator. I haven't slept in a night and two days.”

            His voice was a humiliated mumble as he glared at the sand, squirming at the uncomfortable heat of his body.

            “I suppose the first thing you should do is sleep then. And eat. I imagine you haven't done that in a while.”

            He glanced at the boy and squinted, unsure if he was seeing things or if there was actually a brightness about the boy that he hadn't noticed before. He raised a hand to wipe it across his forehead, smearing sweat that left a dull sheen on his pale skin. He felt such a deep heat coming over his body that his skin crawled and itched. He blinked lethargically and shook his head to clear it.

            “We'll move along the water then. Animals should gather near it if it's the only source of water.”

            The boy nodded as he ceased his probing, releasing Gilgamesh's foot. His eyes seemed to swirl and pierce straight into Gilgamesh's soul. Gilgamesh turned his own scarlet orbs away from the boy, feeling ridiculously red in the face for no reason. It felt like his lungs couldn't get enough air as he stood, careful to avoid stepping straight down on his bad foot.

            “We need to wash the wound first, light-skin.”

            Why did the boy watch him so intently? He had barely heard the deep, melodic voice—his ears felt thick, as if filled with cotton. He tilted his head to one side and the world spun.

            The boy watched Gilgamesh sway back and forth with flickering eyes, and a look of understanding dawned on him.

            “I knew there was no way anyone's skin could be so white living this close to this desert.”

            But Gilgamesh didn't hear him at this point; there was a great heat raging through his body that swept away all coherent thought, leaving a jumble of colours swirling through his brain. The colours continued swirling before ending in black, and his eyes rolled back as he crumbled like a puppet with its strings cut.

*~*~*~*~*

 

            He would've fallen straight into the water if the boy wouldn't have caught him and gently lowered him to the ground, uttering a curse that no human would recognize. The wind recognized it, however, and gave a start—the boy could speak the tongue of beasts. The wind would've been much more interested if its dear companion hadn't fallen into a sleep that it had seen kill many a grown man.

            “I suppose now's as good a time as any to return the favour of saving my life.”

            The boy reached down to feel Gilgamesh's forehead and pulled his hand back as if he'd been burned. He gritted his teeth; it was bad. A sickness that came over a man this quickly and brought his temperature up to such great heights was more than just rot-foot. This was something else entirely, something that could kill in the span of a few hours.

            The boy stood and glanced up to the sky, noticing a few vultures circling. There were always vultures out here, searching for any sign of death. A small, feral grin touched his lips as he watched them, then he raised his voice in rough cry that didn't sound like it should come from the vocals of a human.     

            The scavengers immediately wheeled towards him, wings beating large, slow spans as they lazily began drifting to the ground. The wind, in impatience, battered them until they were forced to the sand with angry screeches.

            The boy just rolled his eyes and left Gilgamesh's side for a second, walking with a confident gait as if there was no sand beneath his feet. Three vultures crouched side by side, angry bird-murmurs issuing from them as they ruffled their feathers indignantly, cross at having been so rudely received by the wind.

            “I need lyre-root and I would ask for your help to get me some.”

            He spoke in the language of the vultures, but for whatever reason the three didn't seem the least bit surprised. They hopped from foot to foot in attempt to stop the heat from injuring them, and cocked their heads, beady eyes regarding him greedily as they fluttered their wings without answering. He knew what they were wondering; what was in it for them?

            “The first one to bring me back lyre-root is invited for a permanent stay in my kingdom. Whatever dies there, you'll get first choice.”

            A generous offer, a generous offer indeed. The bird's eyes glittered as they each took off flapping quickly to raise their fat bodies from the ground. This time, the wind aided them and in no time at all, they became black specks against the setting sun, flying towards the blood streaked twilight.

            The boy nodded to himself and turned back to Gilgamesh, his forehead creasing in concern as he watched him begin to shudder huge, convulsive shudders. He trotted back over and dropped to his knees beside his golden-haired companion, carefully scooping up handfuls of the warm water to begin washing out the cut. He knew the water was clean enough; he'd seen many an animal drink from it before.

            His hands were again surprisingly gentle as he washed the cut with the efficiency of a doctor who'd done the same thing many times before. His eyes never left Gilgamesh's sweat-soaked face as he washed; he could see the pale skin growing whiter before his eyes.

            He'd seen this sickness only once before; a wild dog had come to him with it. The dog had showed the same symptoms, shuddering and whimpering. He'd tried all of the roots he knew until he'd come to lyre-root. It had soothed the dog and taken the heat with it when he'd rubbed it into the cut and forced a bit down the dog's throat. After no more than an hour, the dog had been feeling better.

            He massaged the cut more, making Gilgamesh cry out in pain from the darkness of his unconsciousness, but the cut wept and he knew that if he didn't continue the massage until the vultures came back, the thick fluid weeping from the cut now would kill Gilgamesh.

            His thoughts roamed back to the dog that had the same sickness. It was true that everything had seemed fine after the dog had consumed the lyre-root; he'd been weak, but he had stopped whimpering and seemed fully alert, the fever completely dissipated. Everything should have been fine after that.

            By the second hour, the dog was dead. The fever had come back worse than ever, and it shook the dog until he foamed at the mouth and scrabbled weakly at the ground with pained growls. In less than an hour, the dog had choked on its own vomit and died.

            The boy looked down at Gilgamesh with a wince. He'd seen the sickness once and he'd heard of it many times. And, in every situation that the sickness was present, the afflicted one had died screaming.

*~*~*~*~*

            “What did you do?”

            Gilgamesh looked up at his father, his mouth opening and closing weakly, but he could find no words to appease the man standing before him.

            “What did you do?”

            The voice was as sharp as a whip, lashing him so that he could only sink to his knees with tears rising in his eyes.

            “I'm sorry!”

            His voice was a whimpering wail, and he covered his face with his hands, sobbing into it.

            Somewhere deep inside of him, he wondered what was going on. This wasn't happening right now; this was the memory of the first time his father had hurt him. He had been playing with some friends outside when they'd knocked over his mother's vase. It had been beautiful; dyed clay with gorgeous deep purples twisting around and between greens, and it had been expensive. When they'd broken it, his friends had run in fear, leaving him to try to explain to his father what had happened.

            “Do you think 'sorry' will cover the cost of this vase? Do you?”

            What had scared him the most had been the fact that his father's eyes hadn't seemed angry even as he'd spoken angry words. His father's eyes had seemed amused, with a deep glitter of cruelness rising as he'd watched Gilgamesh cry. Or rather 'the boy' as he'd been back then. But he wasn't, and he wouldn't let himself go back to that place. He tried to imagine a different place in his life but this one continued playing in his head like a theater troupe he'd once seen.

            “Please, Father, please forgive me.”

            He had placed his small hands, which had only seen four years of life, in front of him to beg. His father hadn't tried to hide cruel delight.

            “Come inside.”

            His father hadn't waited for an answer, he'd grabbed Gilgamesh's arm with a force that made him cry out and tremble, wondering what was coming next.

            When his father had kicked the door shut, the thick wood had struck the walls with a sound of finality. Gilgamesh had glanced backwards and felt a terrible fear, one he'd never felt before, eating up his soul. He'd looked up at his father as the man shoved him to the floor, chuckling in a way that sent shivers up and down Gilgamesh's spine.

            “You deserve punishment, boy.”

            Gilgamesh cowered, backing against the wall as his father stepped closer, the silk whispering against his dark skin. He pulled one foot pack and brought it into Gilgamesh's stomach with a force that lifted Gilgamesh slightly before setting him back onto the hard-packed earth.

            The boy cried out in pain, wrapping both arms around his stomach, pressing his face into the dirt as waves of pain cascaded throughout his body. His father drew back his foot and kicked again. And again. And again. Over and over he kicked the boy until blood dripped from the boy's lips and the only sound besides hard flesh striking soft were huge, wracking sobs and gasps of 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'

            Finally, the kicks stopped. Crimson seeped into the dirt, not all of from the boy's mouth; his father's toenails had scored deep wounds into the boy's young flesh.

            “You're sorry, are you?”

            The voice was soft, threatening. It promised that he was nowhere near as sorry as he was going to be, though he'd been beaten until his skin was raw with red standing out in stark contrast against his white skin. He couldn't stop shaking, and when his voice came out, it was a quivering whimper of pain.

            “Y...y-y...es...”

            His body ached and burned, not yet accustomed to such a horrible pain. He could taste a metallic tang deep in his throat, and strands of blood formed between his mouth and the ground like red strings of saliva. Tears leaked down his cheeks, clear and pure, and he was almost surprised to find that they weren't ruby as well.

            “I still don't think you're sorry enough.”

            His father left the room and he would've cried in relief if he hadn't already been crying. He was too young to hear the promise in his father's voice, too pained to think about what his father's sadistic statement had meant.

            Of course, it wasn't too long until he found out; his father came back with a whip used for horses. The black leather was something he'd become well-acquainted with throughout the years. Something that seemed like a living snake, thirsting for his blood. In his mind, it had become simply an extension of his father, as his father raised it in one hand and brought it down upon him with maniacal laughter.

            To describe the kind of biting pain that digs into the skin and slowly jerks out, clinging to the skin like a burr would cling to cloth, is impossible. The boy could not describe it and he wished none would ever understand it because the only way to understand is for one to feel the biting pain gnawing at their own body.

            The screams tumbled from his lips like large boulders tumble from cliffs, huge, crushing and bringing a pain that none could imagine.

            This had been a time before he'd found a way to separate his mind from his body so that his body felt the pain but he sat back and watched it blankly deep within his mind. It was also a time before he'd lost his innocence, and if he thought about how things were after he lost his innocence, he realized very quickly that he'd much rather be here.

            That realization brought with it another; this wasn't really happening. His own blood scattering through the air like rain made the image he'd seen before traveling into the wasteland rise to mind. His father swung the whip again but this time Gilgamesh held up his arm so that the whip curled around it and his father was forced a couple of steps towards him.

            “Father.”

            A chuckle bubbled past his lips as he stood, now twelve years old instead of four, his eyes hard with knowledge instead of soft with wonder at the world.

            “You're dead. Even here in my memories, I reject your existence.”

            His father's face contorted. At first Gilgamesh thought it was in fear or despair, but then he realized that no human's face should be able to contort like that. It kept twisting and twisting until it was unrecognizable, then softened like clay.

            Gilgamesh shook the whip from his arm and pressed himself against the wall, watching in disgust as his father's face began melting, skin falling like wax down a burning candle. The man reached towards Gilgamesh one last time before uttering the same scream he'd given in death and turning to a puddle of brown clay on the floor.

            Then the clay began to grow. It grew like a stain, spreading across the floor as a viscous substance, rising like water. Gilgamesh let out a strangled cry. Or at least, he would've, but all of a sudden he could hear nothing. The clay sloshed over his feet as it began to fill the room, and Gilgamesh searched frantically for a way out without having to shove his way through the thickest part. The clay clung to him like a living thing, and much as he kicked, it was too thick for him to move quickly. His eyes found the hole in the wall and he pulled himself along, the clay now up to his knees and feeling like quicksand pulling him down.

            A deep, tinny sound reached his ears, sounding like it was coming from a hundred leagues away, but Gilgamesh was panicking so much that he couldn't pay attention to it. He clawed along the wall until he finally reached the window, the substance on the floor now up to his thighs, clinging to his scarred skin.

            “—up.”

            The low, rumbling sound was slightly louder but he ignored it, curling his thin fingers desperately around the window's ledge and pulling himself up towards it. The clay made a deep sucking sound as he tried to tug himself out of it, and it held him to he could only pull himself up enough to see out the window.

            The moon hung low and heavy in the sky, wavering as if it weren't sure whether or not it wanted to be there. If he were the moon, he wouldn't have wanted to be there because the sky had been dyed the colour of blood and the entire town was gone, replaced by bronzed clay rising like bread in an oven. The clay rose higher and higher until it was at his chest, but there was nothing to do, nowhere to go; it was the same height outside as well.

            “—ke up.”

            He raised his head slightly at the sound, his ruddy eyes dark with anger. What kind of person tried to annoy a man on his deathbed? The noise wasn't helping him accept his death.

            “—ake up!”

            Now it was painfully loud, so much that his head began to ache. The clay was at his neck now, and he could only move the hands he'd risen over his head in a rude gesture as if to say; stop bothering me, fool. The clay crawled along his face until he was only breathing through his nose. The sky was beginning to darken into a black.

            “I said wake up!”

            The clay covered his nose and he couldn't breathe. He opened his mouth to cry out and it flowed into him, filling him with a deep pain that made his entire body arch, muscles rigid and tense.

            He shot up through the air, his cry echoing out into the desert. Then he paused, wondering if he'd died. But no.

            Wind ruffled his hair affectionately as fresh air entered his lungs, and he almost sobbed in relief. His eyes found the river beside him and he let out a dry croak of happiness as he cupped the water in his hands and brought it to his mouth, feeling like he'd never tasted something so good. He drank deeply and it seemed to chase away a heat in his body that made his head swim. Once he'd drunk his fill, he wiped his mouth and turned to face the dark boy who'd been watching him.

            “How?”

            The boy shrugged, and turned to gaze over the sand which was turning slightly pink from the rising sun.

            “I found some herbs that help with the sickness. Don't ask where—I'm not lending out secrets to strangers. But you can consider the debt repaid.”

            Gilgamesh nodded, realizing the boy must've watched over him all night to ensure the sand scorpions which lived underneath the ground all throughout the desert didn't consume him. It was almost doubly repaid at this rate, but if the boy wanted to consider them squared, that was fine with him.

            He began using the water to scrub old sweat from himself as the boy stood, cracking his shoulders and stretching as if stiff. With his body silhouetted against the rising sun, Gilgamesh could see even better how painfully thin the boy was. He let out a sigh as he tugged the black cord carrying his ruby over his head and examined it.   

            “Here.”

            He averted his eyes from the boy as the boy turned, clearly surprised, and frowned.

            “Why would you give me something worth so much? Won't your noble father be angry at your spontaneous gift-giving?”

            He could hear the mocking in that lovely voice, the scorn one feels towards someone who's never known suffering and could not even begin to picture it. He knew it well; he'd felt it towards almost every person in the village. Though it had ended up going beyond scorn into hatred at some point.

            That was why he stood and faced the boy, looking straight into the boy's light eyes as if they were complete equals. It was something he wouldn't do often in his life, but his arrogance was not yet what it would be.

            “I have no family. I have nothing but a name. And that is enough.”

            There wasn't a trace of self-pity in his voice or eyes. There never would be over something like that—the death of his family was a blessing, and he considered himself fortunate to be where he was. The boy recognized this and seemed startled at first, but then recovered and nodded, accepting the gift without a thanks. Now they were truly squared.

            “You give me yours and I'll give you mine.”

            The boy slipped the cord over his neck as he spoke, the ruby settling at the hollow of his throat. It would be enough to feed him for almost a year if he sold it to a fair merchant.

            “Gilgamesh. Remember it—someday I'll be your king.”

            The arrogance was back in full force as Gilgamesh smirked, his injured foot resting fully on the ground. The boy had wrapped the veil from Gilgamesh's wrist around it so no more dirt could enter the wound. At least, that's what Gilgamesh thought.

            “Well, Gilgamesh, I just thought I'd let you know that I slipped some leeches into your body through the cut on your foot.”

            His smirk dropped like a rock and his face, which had gained most of its colour back, now became almost as pale as it had been when the fever ravaged his body. The boy grinned.

            “And I'm Enkita.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

It took much explaining for Enkita to stop Gilgamesh from trying to strangle him with the very cord he'd given him.

            Enkita had realized as he'd tended to Gilgamesh throughout the night that the reason everyone had died after their fever went down was because lyre-root was used to take down fevers. So it would cure a fatal symptom, but it wouldn't cure the sickness. In order to cure the sickness—which was a blood sickness, because lyre-root only took down fevers of blood-sicknesses—blood needed to be purified. So he'd put leeches on the cut on Gilgamesh's foot, though where he managed to find leeches Gilgamesh couldn't guess.

            Even after explaining this, Gilgamesh was still fuming, and he childishly refused to speak to Enkita, instead content on marching alongside the river and muttering to the wind, which picked up slightly at all the right moments like a good friend who wasn't really listening to what you were saying.

            “So, where are we going, Gil?”

            That stopped Gilgamesh dead in his tracks. When he turned, his face was a strange shade of red, as if he were choking. Enkita wore the most innocent smile a person could possibly wear, oddly long canines making it look wolfish.

            “What. Did. You. Just. Say?”

            The sentence was sharply staccatoed, and every word dripped with a dark hatred. They weren't even traveling together, really, they both just happened to be trying to go somewhere that wasn't this barren, lifeless desert. The wind had more or less told Gilgamesh to continue following the river so that was what he did. Enkita had gotten lost after coming to the desert for some unknown reason, so he followed Gilgamesh.

            Gilgamesh was ravenous, which served to make him more irritable than ever. Enkita had apparently managed to get some sort of food, so he enjoyed taunting Gilgamesh at every turn. With the sun beating down hot enough to tinge Gilgamesh's skin red, he was ready to burst from anger.

            “If you ever call me Gil again, mutt, I'll cut out your tongue like the filthy dog you are then shove it down your throat so your can taste the air when I slit your belly to let it in.”

            The first time Gilgamesh had called Enkita mutt, it had upset him, but now that Enkita knew Gilgamesh meant nothing against dogs, he didn't really care. And Gilgamesh's threats didn't affect him either; the starving boy was nothing against him without the help of the wind, and the wind didn't seem to feel any animosity towards him so he felt safe.

            “Shortening my great name. Who does he think he is? From now on I'll call him Enki.”

            Enkita bit back a laugh but Gilgamesh ignored it, wading through the river with large sighs every five steps. His stomach grumbled just as much, if not more, than him as he walked, and he wondered how he was even going to get food when he reached wherever he was going.

            Although it seemed he was almost there—the landscape was beginning to change rapidly. Where before the entire wasteland had been made of light, golden-coloured sand, the sand to the sides of the river was darker—a deep brown flecked with bits of black and small glittering pieces that sparkled when one looked at them a certain way.

            And instead of just sand, real pieces of landscape were beginning to appear scattered sporadically about; scraggly bushes reaching desperately towards the sun, large rocks flattened enough for Gilgamesh to believe the flattening had been done by man, and strangely coloured lizards slithering about that were impossible to see until one came right upon them.

            Though Enkita didn't seem too affected and hardly anyone else would, Gilgamesh took all this in as thirstily as he'd drunk the water from the river after slogging through the desert for two days. He'd spent most of his time in his small village, seeing only sand and huts, and when he wasn't in the village he had been out in the desert where only vultures, sun rays, and wind played.

            Seeing these new bushes that were nothing like the small white flowers growing about his village set his heart alight with curiosity. Every time a lizard shook hot sand from its back to slither away from Gilgamesh's trek, his eyes followed it in delight as if it were the only thing in the world. When he came to the large rocks, the only thing that held him back from running to them and dancing atop them was Enkita's presence. Even still, his breath caught in his throat and he would walk backwards for a while just to keep his eyes on them.

            “We must be nearing the city of Lenla.”

            Gilgamesh studied Enkita out of the corner of his eyes, animosity forgotten for the moment as he watched the wild, tanned boy sniff the air with an affirmed nod.

            “How do you know?”

            Enkita looked at him as if in confusion, shrugging his shoulders lightly as he moved with the eager trot of a wild dog.

            “I can smell it. Can't you?”

            Gilgamesh sniffed the air but smelled nothing other than stale sweat from days of walking and the salty dryness of desert.

            “Not really. Of course, I'm not a mutt so I don't have the best nose.”          

            Enkita's eyes flickered around Gilgamesh for a moment and Gilgamesh wondered what he was thinking. There was a sparkle in them that he didn't care for—the same one that a monkey would get before throwing coconuts from a tree. Gilgamesh took an involuntary step back and Enkita sprung.

            There was no time to react beyond throwing his arms up to cover his face, but Enkita didn't go for his face; he tackled him straight into the water where they were both submerged for a few seconds. When Gilgamesh shoved himself from the water, spluttering and trying to wipe mud from his skin, he was furious.

            “What in the seven hells in wrong with you?!”

            Enkita was rolling on the ground, clutching his stomach from laughing so hard. Mud was caked to his skin, but it didn't show up nearly as well as it did on Gilgamesh's. The ruby at his throat bounced as his whole body shook with wild laughter, and he pounded the ground with one fist.

            Gilgamesh opened his mouth to shout again furiously, but then he thought of the situation and closed it. His town had been burned so he'd traveled into the desert to find somewhere—though he wasn't sure where—to go. Along the way, he'd nearly gone mad with panic then tripped over a bone which made him land on an unconscious boy, who he'd proceeded to carry around until a sandstorm hit. When the sandstorm hit, he'd talked the wind into sparing his life then found some water and revived the boy, who in turn saved his life because he'd gotten sick from tripping over a bone. Now they were headed together to lord knew where to do lord knew what for no particular reason.

            He watched Enkita laugh a little more before a chuckle issued from his own mouth. From there it went downhill because he fell on his side and couldn't stop laughing, mud dripping from his face into the water as he wrapped his arms around himself. And when he and Enkita looked at each other after their laughter had died a bit, they'd start up all over again until they were both gasping for air and groaning from the pain of their stomach from the wild laughter.

            It was one of the strangest experiences of Gilgamesh's life. He'd never laughed so heartily with anyone before, and it felt rather nice, despite the tears of pain streaming from his eyes from his aching tummy. He took deep, calming breaths, avoiding Enkita's eyes so he wouldn't start up again, and stood, scooping up water to wash the mud off of his skin before the hot sun baked it on.

            “You know, Gil, you may be an arrogant bastard, but you sure know how to make a person laugh.”

            Gilgamesh sighed, a smile playing about his lips as he got the last of the mud off. His hair had already been dried, the sun was so hot. He turned to Enkita and offered a hand to help the tanned boy up.

            “Careful, mutt. You almost sound like you're in love with me. You must know that a king can never be with a commoner.”

            Enkita snorted as he took Gilgamesh's hand and stood, releasing it to brush mud from his own skin.           

            “The day someone falls in love with you is the day a scavenger become a predator. Actually...”

            He stretched his arms over his head leisurely, smirking.

            “I think that applies for the day you become king too.”

            Gilgamesh tilted his head and looked down his nose scathingly, the very picture of arrogance.

            “You will lick my feet before the next red moon.”

            Then they both smirked at each other and continued down the river, the mood considerably lighter than before. The sun was beginning to sink again by the time Gilgamesh's nose picked up the scent Enkita had been talking about. He immediately wished it hadn't.

            The scent of people hung heavily in the air—sweat, skin, and unbathed bodies, with an underlying tinge of rotten meat, as if many things had died. Over top of that scent was the salty tang of sex, the air impregnated with the cheap perfumes of whores and their patrons, ripe with old blood from wounds not made by steel but by the loss of innocence. Even more encompassing was the scent of food, and despite the disgusting other scents, Gilgamesh's stomach roared in want as the fragrance of sugary fruits, cooking meats, and secret sweets played off each other like music in harmony.

            His second sense of the city long before he saw it was noise. As he had walked with Enkita, the ground had begun to harden gradually into rock, and then slope upwards so that the two boys were forced to climb.

            Before he reached the top, noise tumbled down from above like a waterfall, a cascade of clanging steels, boisterous laughing, sizzling food, high-pitched shrieks and merchants calling out their wares. He had never heard so much in one place before, and it made his head spin. His longing to see the other side of the hill grew as the voices grew, and he unconsciously picked up his pace. He barely noticed the fact that Enkita had stopped, but when he did he turned, puzzled.

            Enkita wore an expression that sent a chill down Gilgamesh's spine; his were lips quirked up in disgusted snarl that showed his canines and his eyes flashed darkly, turning their light colour dark. His nose was wrinkled as if he smelled something that made him want to retch, and his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were turning white.

            “Problem?”

            Gilgamesh refrained from calling Enkita mutt this time; the expression on his face was too dark. Enkita's eyes turned on him and for a second Gilgamesh felt like prey, waiting for a predator to pounce and sink its teeth into his soft throat. He swallowed but didn't look away, and the expression faded after a second.

            “Sorry Gil, but this is as far as I go.”

            Gilgamesh raised an eyebrow, watching as Enkita looked at the top of the hill and then backed away, crouching slightly like an animal preparing to run.

            “I can't stand cities.”

            Gilgamesh wasn't exactly sure how to say goodbye to this strange person. It had been nice traveling with him, but he was still largely unaccustomed to true social interactions, and he'd never had to say a formal farewell in his life.

            “Where are you going to sell the ruby then?”

            It was way too lame a question for a farewell, so he continued thinking as Enkita spoke.

            “None of your business. It's mine now.”

            “Of course. I should've guessed you wouldn't tell me. You've more or less said nothing of yourself this whole trip.”

            Enkita nodded, his face softening just enough so that he looked amused again.

            “I'm surprised you actually noticed; I thought you were too absorbed with yourself to notice anything or anyone else. But you know... you haven't really told me anything of yourself either, other than that you have no family.”

            Gilgamesh shrugged lightly.

            “There's nothing more to tell.”

            “There's always more.”

            They stared at each other for a while, neither of them really sure what they were trying to prove but both of them holding each other’s eyes nonetheless. Crimson meeting golden brown, light meeting dark.

            Gilgamesh looked away first, unable to hold the honest gaze any longer. He'd never met someone so honest. Not that this boy had even told him anything, but he also hadn't tried to lie or spice himself up.

            “When I'm king, I might buy you a drink, mutt. Or not. You'll just have to come find me to see.”

            It was the right thing to say; Enkita's eyes sparkled wildly as he nodded.

            “I'd like to see the man you become someday, Gilgamesh. Don't disappoint me.”

            Gilgamesh laughed a loud, arrogant laugh, throwing his head back and resting his hands on his hips. Then he grew serious and nodded.

            “I'm interested to see what manner of wild beast you'll be. Don't forget.”

            A mutual understanding grew between them that they would meet again someday, no matter the circumstances. They weren't really friends, but it wouldn't be right to call them simple acquaintances. At that point, it was the sort of reciprocated rivalry that only boys could have.

            “Be seeing you, Gil.”

            Enkita turned and began making his way across the hill. It wasn't exactly the way they'd come from, but it wasn't anywhere that could lead to the city. Gilgamesh made a slight mocking bow to Enkita's back before speaking.

            “Farewell, Enki.”

            Enkita paused for a second, and it seemed as if he were going to turn around and speak, but then he just let out an unbelieving chuckle and continued on his way.

            Gilgamesh grinned before turning towards his own destiny. They would meet again, he was sure. He wondered what kind of person they'd each be next time they met. Then he shoved the thought away and faced the hill, taking his first step toward the place that would help shape him into who he'd become.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The city below the hill was what heaven would look like if demons ran throughout it and turned every light thing dark. Spires reached for the sky like hands seeking a saviour, but the sun itself seemed to have forsaken the city. The hill crested over it to block out the sun and bathe every piece in a shadow, making every alley contain a hundred secrets, every home contain a horror rivaling Gilgamesh's childhood. Homes weren't huts, but though they were made of a rich obsidian wood they were derelict and would've seemed abandoned had there not been people scuttling in and out of them like rats.

            The city floor itself couldn't be seen for a thick smog rose like fog and blanketed it like fresh snow. Floors were built precariously on top of other floors, cheaply added where no more space could be made to build more houses. Any who gazed upon that city could see the hopelessness, could see that it had given up all semblance of resembling something made by human hands.

            Gilgamesh hadn't realized his teeth were chattering until he bit his tongue, and even then he only pulled his tongue back and continued gazing at the city. He had thought cities were supposed to glitter like gems and contain thousands of milling, laughing people, but this was nothing like his imagination. This was almost how he'd pictured the heart of his village to look, except on a larger scale.

            “Is there anywhere on this earth that hasn't been forsaken?”

            His voice wasn't sad or angry. It wasn't even frightened; it was simply wistful. He wished somewhere in his heart that still held some last semblance of innocence that there was such a place as he'd imagined. One that glittered in the sun and shone proudly, open and free.

            Then he forced his feet to take him downwards to that dark place, slipping over rocks which threatened to cut his soles; he feet were toughened against heat and sand, but not used to the sharp edges of stone.

            When he reached the bottom, he steeled his heart and mind, knowing that whatever happened in this city couldn't possibly be anything good. He'd heard that large, proud gates often stood to keep intruders out of cities, but no such thing stood here; no one in their right mind would want to wander into the city and no one in the city could rouse enough hope to leave.

            As he approached, he heard a groan to his right. He stiffened, and his gaze wandered to an old man who lay on the dying ground. The sun on the other side of the hill had already begun its descent when Gilgamesh had been making his way down, and he assumed that it was now almost completely gone as the city had gotten... darker. Not dark, but darker. In the lighting, it was hard to see the old man—he looked more like a pile of rags on the ground than a human being.

            Gilgamesh strode over to him purposefully and crouched, barely able to make out any features.

            “Old man, are you in good health?”

            Another groan broke the night's silence, but the heap in front of him didn't speak a word. Gilgamesh wondered briefly if anyone in the city spoke his language, but he quickly dismissed the thought; every merchant he'd ever met had spoken his language and he was willing to bet some came from this city.

            “Do you need me to get you a healer?”

            The man made an awful noise again, like fingernails against rusty metal, and shifted slightly. But that was all. Gilgamesh closed his eyes briefly, annoyed. It was impossible to see in this light so he had no idea how to treat this thing in front of him.

            He rose from his crouch and glanced around, noting that they were still maybe half an hour's walk from the city. It would be useless to go into the city unprepared with no light, so here was as good a place to rest as any.

            “I'll see to you in the morning, old man. I need sleep and light. Though I doubt I'll be getting much of either here.”

            He chose a low bush nonetheless, walking about ten strides from the man before settling down on the dusty earth and closing his eyes. It was exceptionally uncomfortable for someone who'd slept on soft sand his whole life, but since he was used to sleeping with fresh wounds, he began drifting almost immediately.

            He hadn't realized how tired he was until he lay down; the sickness must've drained him more than he'd thought. With the wind playing gently with his golden locks like a loving parent, Gilgamesh fell into a darkness deeper—and a thousand times more peaceful—than the darkness that lay over the city.

*~*~*~*~*

            When Gilgamesh awoke, it wasn't really because it was light out—it was more because of the horrified screams were coming from his right. And it wasn't really a nice, slow awakening with pleasant stretching to loosen his muscles—it was more of a bolting awake, heart pounding kind of awakening.

            The heap of rags that had barely twitched when he'd tried to speak to it was now so close that Gilgamesh could make out every line on his face, every speck of spittle that flew from his lips as he screamed and beat his fists against the air.

            It seemed the wind was holding him back from hurting Gilgamesh, and Gilgamesh had never been so pleased in his life to have someone—or in this case, something—watching out for him.

            The man was wild, not beast wild like Enkita had been, but crazy, murderer-rapist wild. His one eye was wide and filled with a terrified desperation, while his other was gone. Completely gone to the point that only a dark hole remained, and a strange yellowish ooze leaked from it. The rest of his face was scarred and grizzled, and skinny to the point where the shape of his skull was visible. Rather than a full head of hair, only a few clumps of long, white strands clung to his head, the rest of his skull full of a pink rash that flaked when the he moved.

            “Get yourself under control, man!”

            The man immediately stopped his thrashing against the wind when Gilgamesh spoke, and he stared at the boy with his one eye wide. It was impossible to tell whether his skin was light or dark—it was so full of dirt that he could've coated Gilgamesh's entire village and still have some left over. He let out another horrific moan, clawing at the air, strands of drool stringing down his face.

            “What manner of person are you?”

            Gilgamesh stood, his body stiff from sleeping on such hard ground, and moved his head until his neck gave a satisfying crack. Then he fixed his gaze on the man in front of him, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited for an answer.

            The man merely opened his mouth and stuck out what was left of his tongue. Gilgamesh flinched, and took a wary step back. The man closed his mouth, hiding the dark lump of flesh, and beat at the air some more. It seemed he was trying to communicate but wasn't sure how without a tongue.

            “It's okay.”

            This was addressed to the wind, but the old man seemed to think it was to him. He shook his head more vehemently and threw his hands against the air, making a choked sound that sounded like someone being strangled when he found there was no more resistance. He stumbled forward until he came to a stop right in front of Gilgamesh. It took everything Gilgamesh had not to retch from the smell.

            “Gii—eee.”

            The man seemed to be trying to speak, but Gilgamesh couldn't make out a single word. The man repeated those two vowels over and over, his voice rising pathetically higher each time.

            “Stop.”

            Gilgamesh's voice was quiet, so quiet that the man completely ignored him and continued trying to speak, gesturing wildly with his hands, tearing at his hair and stomping his feet. It was the very picture of a human being who had lost their dignity completely.

            “I said that is enough!”

            Gilgamesh's voice cracked so horribly that he'd even shocked himself. The man stared at him earnestly, not having noticed the crack, but Gilgamesh covered his mouth with a low curse, fighting a sense of shame. It seemed his voice was choosing this day to begin its transformation to a lower timbre. That would bring him great embarrassment in the city if he wasn't careful.

            While he was busy thinking, the man had crouched in the dirt and was scratching something with one finger. He finished and leaned back to let Gilgamesh see, rocking back and forth on bare heels as he examined Gilgamesh's expression.

            It looked like chicken scratches to Gilgamesh, but he knew it as writing. The problem was, he'd never learned to read. In a village as small as his, there had never been any sort of educational system so he'd spent most of his time listening to the scribes and wisemen of his village talk, and memorizing what they'd been saying. Because of this, he had an exceptional memory, but when it came to reading he knew nothing. He shook his head slightly and looked impassively at the man.

            “I can't read.”

            The man let out another wail, then reached out and grabbed Gilgamesh's hand. Gilgamesh fought the urge to shake it off and watched as the man brought his hand to his throat.

            “Gii—eee.”

            Kill me.

            Gilgamesh's hand tightened around the man's throat and a look of elation passed over the man's face. His mouth opened in a beatific, toothless smile, and he closed his eyes as if it were a great pleasure to be strangled.

            “You disgust me.”     

            Gilgamesh released the man, who fell to his knees on the ground. He looked up at Gilgamesh, tears welling in his one eye.

            “Someone like you, someone who's given up on life and wants to die, is absolutely disgusting.”

            The man put his dark, scarred hands together and bowed his head to the ground as if begging. He reached out to lay his hands on Gilgamesh's feet but Gilgamesh stepped back and spat on the ground beside him.

            “You're so low I won't even spit on you because my spit is too good for you.”

            He walked past the man, his face a mask of loathing, giving the man a wide berth as if the man were a pile of dung that reeked with a particular awfulness. The man lunged forward to grab as his feet but the wind battered him off, not allowing him to dirty Gilgamesh any further.

            Gilgamesh stopped and looked over his shoulder, his upper lip curled in distaste. His eyes were like bits of scarlet steel, and they glinted with coldness that made even this less-than-human thing cease his attempts. They were not the eyes of a boy.

            “It is true that your life may not get any better. You can't get back your eye or tongue... the way you are now, you probably can't even get back your dignity. It's pointless for you to live for yourself. But...”

            He turned from the man and his eyes were far away, as if he were talking to someone else in some other time.

            “If there's no point in living, then there's no point in dying.”

            The man, who'd been moaning quietly the whole time, suddenly grew still, his entire being focusing on the words of a boy a sixth of his age.

            “You think this world was made for you? You think that if you're unhappy, it'll suddenly end just because you don't think there's a point to it anymore?”

            Gilgamesh suddenly spun, standing with his back to the darkness of the town. The wind picked up and tussled his golden hair, and in the old man's eyes, there was a sort of brightness about him, as if he were glowing. His eyes were certainly glowing with a fiery heat, lit like a candle in the darkest part of the night.

            “Listen to my words, and listen well, filth. Death doesn't simply mean peace from pain or an end to suffering. It doesn't mean 'warmth, light and happiness.' It doesn't even mean escape from cowardice. Death means that you lose your chance to leave a mark on this world, your chance to change something.

            Dying won't change who you are—if you kill yourself or have someone kill you because you're a coward, you'll still be a coward in death. It isn't the 'be all end all' of everything. Those are the principles of an ignorant half-breed! If you truly want change from your life, bring it about with your own, scarred, pain-filled hands!

            I will not sit by idly and wish for death to come to me. I will fight tooth and nail every step of the way, no matter how much suffering I experience. If I must suffer my entire life, so be it! Will I wallow in self-pity and wish for an end? Of course not! I will tear the earth in two before I let it break me. I will gouge myself into this world until the world screams in pain! If something must give, I will force the earth itself to change to suit me, not the other way around!”

            Gilgamesh grabbed the old man by the front of his torn, dirty clothes, lifting him in the air. The old man's mouth fell open as he gazed into Gilgamesh's impassioned eyes, eyes that said he would break the entire universe if it dared to disobey him.   

            “You are the most disgusting thing I've ever laid eyes on. The scent of you makes my stomach roil and my nose recoil in horror. But does that not prove that you exist in this world? You have enough presence to make me sick! If that is the case, then use that presence to disgust the world so much that it will have no choice but to shape itself so none like you will ever exist again.

            If you won't live yourself, if you feel as if you have nothing to give your life to, give it to me! Let me use you like a hammer to pound my principles into the very soil that birthed you.”

            Gilgamesh slowly lowered the man to his feet and released him, leaving the man standing on his own, his chest heaving as if he'd forgotten to breathe for a while. Then, trembling, he lowered himself on one knee and bowed his head to Gilgamesh, the kind of deep bow that knights offered to their king. Gilgamesh gazed upon him silently before speaking, his calm voice a stark contrast to the way it had danced in passion before.

            “Get up.”

            The old man shook his head frantically, bowing lower as if to say 'please.'

            “Will you not listen to your king?”

            At that, the old man sprang to his feet and looked at Gilgamesh hopefully. Gilgamesh had already turned and was making his way into the city. The old man followed his steps. Gilgamesh only turned once, very slightly, to see if the old man was following. Once he'd confirmed it, a smirk touched his lips and he turned back towards the city.

            With the old man shambling along behind him, Gilgamesh was forced to slow his pace, so it took them nearly two hours to reach Lenla. Neither of them made a sound save the soft slaps of their feet as the ground changed from the hard soil to rock to cobblestone. The cobblestone was old and cracked with dry tufts of dead grass trying to poke their way through, but failing in most spots.

            When they finally began reaching the outskirts of town, Gilgamesh was shocked at the poverty. His town had never been exactly rich, but he had never seen such a spirit of poorness... not just materialistically, but mentally, spiritually as well.

            Small, frail children walked aimlessly about, their clothes stained rags that hung from their bodies the way folds of skin hung from obese nobles. Their eyes were empty, sunken into their skulls, and stood out piteously from their ashen skin which stretched tight over their insides. Though some of them had plump stomachs, there was a wrongness about it—their stomachs looked hard, not soft from nights of feasting.

            The adults were even worse, though there were precious little adults to be seen. They looked so skeletal that any who saw them would believe them to be skeletons had they not had dark skin. Not a single one had a tooth in their mouth, and every skull only contained strands of hair like the ones on the old man. Their lips were shriveled as if their bodies had already begun to decay, and they seemed interested in nothing.

            Gilgamesh stared openly, but no one who shambled about showed any interest in him or the old man who had pressed close to his back and was staring at the people with a soft, sad familiarity. These were the very dredges of society, the ones who had given up on life. Those who still had something left lived on the outskirts in shacks, but these were the people whose families and friends had already departed the world. They were all waiting to die.

            “Damn it.”

            Gilgamesh clenched his fists as he looked at them, his jaw tight with anger.

            “Who allows this to happen?”

            No one offered him an answer or even a glance. The old man shook his head, lowering it as if praying for the souls that had already left these people. Gilgamesh knew that it was futile to try and talk sense into any of them—there were too many to help. By the time he helped them all, there would probably be just as many more cropping up.

            “In order to truly rid them of this hopelessness, I'll have to destroy the problem. These people are but symptoms of it.”

            Like the way Enkita had used leeches to drain the sickness from his blood, Gilgamesh's thoughts turned to draining the sickness from the country itself. Lenla was a forsaken city, but it still had to have a king. And since there didn't seem to be a palace anywhere near, the same king who ruled over the entire country must rule the city too.

            Gilgamesh straightened until his presence made him taller than he was, and he strode with the confidence of a man with great purpose. He needed a plan, he needed knowledge, he needed people. But first, he needed food.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The din he'd heard as he was coming up the hill was nothing compared to what it was as he moved further into Lenla.

            Merchants screeched their wares in thin, reedy voices, and when Gilgamesh moved even the slightest bit to either side of the narrow, sparse street, they would come and clutch at his arms, begging him to buy something. Whores wore no clothes above their waists, and they came like a flock of scavengers, pressing their breasts against his chest and murmuring seductively that they could show him a good time. Children danced throughout it all, yelling and screeching when a merchant caught them with their hands in the wrong place.

            Underneath it all was a sort of creaking, as if the whole town was threatening to cave in. He realized after a while that it was the wind keeping pace with him, but even though the wind was slight, it still sent the precarious rooms on top of houses swaying.

            In hindsight, he should've realized not to come into the city still wearing silk with his skin, now lightly golden from the sun after the burn faded away, still clean. He stuck out like a peacock among crows, and it was as if every person wanted to cling to him to try to steal away some of his glow.

            The old man was being pushed further and further away as a larger crowd gathered around him, trying to sell him things ranging from swords to foods to bodies, and at one point a particularly aggressive merchant shoved the old man to the ground in disgust as he tried to move closer to Gilgamesh.

            “Hey, mutt.”

            Everyone stopped talking for a second as Gilgamesh spoke for the first time, turning his eyes to the merchant who'd shoved the old man. They must have noticed something terrifying in the ruby globes, as they all suddenly realized that maybe one of the children wanted to buy something and rushed back to their stands.

            The merchant, who'd thrust his chest out indignantly when Gilgamesh had called him mutt, suddenly looked nervous as he watched his fellow tradesmen avoid his eyes and return to their business. Though Gilgamesh was only twelve, he stood at eye-height with the merchant, and his presence made him seem all the taller.

            “F-forgive me, young sir?”

            It sounded like a question, as if he weren't really sure what he should apologize for but he knew there was something.

            “You distasteful insect. You dare shove one of my people to the ground and then have the audacity to phrase what should be a speech of apologies into a single apologetic question?”

            The merchant jumped and glanced down at the old man nervously, wringing his hands.

            “I did not know, sir. Please forgive me. A thousand apologies could not convey—”

            “That's correct.”

            Gilgamesh cut the man off sharply, taking a threatening step forward.

            “A thousand apologies mean nothing if you give them to me. But one to him will be a start.”

            The merchant's face paled as he looked at the old man, trying to hide his disgust. He succeeded for the most part, but his nose was still lifted as if he smelled something foul.

            “On your knees.”

            The merchant looked disbelievingly at Gilgamesh, as if shocked that he would demand something like that. It was plain from the look on his face that he would rather disembowel himself than offer a sincere apology to the stinking, rank creature that now looked at him curiously.

            “I'm afraid I cannot—”

            “Now.”

            And he might have actually done it, had Gilgamesh's voice not chosen that moment to break and squeak horrendously. Everyone on the street blinked, then stifled laughter as a flash of annoyance mingled with embarrassment turned Gilgamesh's ears pink.

            For the merchant, it was a blessing, and he suddenly straightened with a smirk one would aim at a small child when scolding them for something doing something foolish. It was if the spell of Gilgamesh's authority had been broken and everyone on the street realized his age. Children laughed openly and pointed at him, merchants hid laughs behind their hands, and whores cooed at his cuteness.

            “I'm sorry, boy, but I'm afraid I don't have it in me to apologize to this steaming pile of—”

            There was nothing Gilgamesh himself could do to stop the taunting coming from every direction, and getting angry would only serve to make everyone laugh all the harder. He was so frustrated with himself he wanted to disappear from the face of the earth, but luck was with him. Or rather, not luck but the powerful friend he'd made in the face of a storm.

            The wind roared its fury at its friend's discomfort, tearing linen coverings from the top of merchant's stalls and scattering fruits that made sick plopping sounds against the dying cobblestone. The shutters of windows came undone and struck harshly against the wood of houses, revealing people huddled in fear inside of them. Merchants and whores cowered against the stone and wood walls behind them, and children disappeared into the doors, screeching.

            The merchant who'd shoved the old man flew to the ground, and began gasping for air that would not enter his lungs. His hands clutched at the ground and his feet kicked like a dying rabbit as he struggled against a force that could tear him apart with ease. When his face began to purple and his gasps grew shorter, Gilgamesh held up one hand.

            “That's enough for now, my friend.”

            The wind ceased immediately, then wrapped itself around him and settled about his shoulders like a scarf, stirring the ends of his flaxen locks.

            The merchant curled into himself and lay, shaking, with his hands over his head as if he expected to be struck. Not a sound could be heard throughout the entire city now; it was if everyone waited with bated breath to see what judgment the wind would pass on them.

            Gilgamesh's feet made quiet sounds as he padded up to the merchant, then past him. He reached his hand out to the old man to help him to his feet, his jaw tight as he took in the scrapes at the old man's elbows. Uncaring of the filth that was getting onto his hands, Gilgamesh lifted the old man's arms and examined them as carefully as if they were the wings of butterflies.

            “I will not tolerate any under my rule getting injured.”        

            His voice was like a coiled spring, and it was evident to all that watched that his anger was growing with every new wound he spotted on the old man's frail body.

            “Please forgive me! I didn't mean to insult you or your companion, sir mage! The only reason I was rude was because I didn't think Old Man Rudy would keep such company as yours. I apologize. I apologize to you and him.”

            The merchant bowed his head to Gilgamesh and Rudy, weeping. His frail hands rested on top of one another, and his forehead made a gentle crease in them as he laid it on them. It was only then that Gilgamesh saw the state of the man; he was not plump, as most merchants were, but he was thin, sickly. His silk clothes had seen better days a hundred red moons ago, but now they weren't fit to be used as carpet for the lowliest person in the city.

            Gazing around, it seemed to Gilgamesh that no other person was in a much better state; each and every one of them looked ready to go to their deaths if someone so much as laid a hand on them.

            “What is your name, merchant?”

            “I-Imro, sir.”

            “Do you know who I am, Imro?”

            The man shook his head rapidly, still bowing deeply.

            “I know that you are a mage, sir. And though it is not my place to speak when you do not wish it, I beg for an audience with you.”

            Gilgamesh was no mage, but he was certainly interested to hear what this man had to say to someone who was, so he didn't bother to refute the claim. Besides, it may give him some insight on how to cause the downfall of the entire mage empire. He looked back at Rudy, raising an eyebrow.

            “Do you have any specific way you'd like to punish this man, Rudy?”

            The old man scratched at his empty eye socket, looking down on the man for a bit. Gilgamesh recognized pity in his gaze as he shook his head after a short pause, sending more yellowish fluid dripping from the socket.

            “Very well. Imro, from where you are, I might as well be a god. What kind of apology would you offer an offended god?”

            Imro looked shocked that a man would compare himself to a god, but he quickly recovered, knowing that the wrong answer could get him killed.

            “I would give him the very best of my food, women, and possessions. I would kill my fattest cow and let him eat it from my back while I washed his feet. I would offer him a place to stay that provided the most pleasure he could possibly receive. But... I don't have the means... I...”

            “You will find the means, merchant, if you have to whore your daughter out to do it!”

            Gilgamesh's roar shook the cowering man to the core, and he nodded quickly. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and tears trickled down his face again, but there was a sort of defeated resolve about him, like he knew the price of not appeasing Gilgamesh would be greater than the price to appease him.

            “I'm pleased we have an understanding. I would have a feast and tub with which to bathe in immediately.”

            Gilgamesh hesitated for a second, glancing at the old man.

            “Make that two, and ensure there's enough soap to clean a village.”

*~*~*~*~*

            It turned out that the city was so destitute they didn't have a single inn left open. There were public bath houses, but Imro quickly dismissed them as not good enough and led Gilgamesh through narrow alleys to 'one of the only respectable places left in Lenla.'

            As they walked, Gilgamesh made notes of his surroundings, surprised at the number of churches in a place which seemed so hopeless. Every spire he'd seen from the top of the hill was the crest of a great church, and every one seemed as if it still believed it could reach the gods. For a city that seemed almost abandoned near the stalls of merchants, the churches were certainly full.

            It seemed the further they moved into the city, the greater the quantity of people there were. Although the quality wasn't exactly greater, there was a sort of spark in the eyes of some. Those people captured Gilgamesh's attention and his eyes tracked them as they moved. When they caught his stare, they gave a small grin and half-hearted wave.

            He'd heard that new spread through cities like wildfire, and it seemed that this was the case, as many watched him curiously as he walked by. Some even started following him. The old man pressed close to his back and watched them all nervously, as if thinking they might kick him.

            “Merchant, why do these people look at me with such hopeful eyes? Are they expecting my scraps?”

            Imro looked nervous, and he fidgeted as if stalling. Gilgamesh's gaze, which had been wandering over the people behind him, suddenly sharpened and fixed on the man with such demanding that the merchant had no choice but to speak truth.

            “We have been wishing that one such as yourself would pass through here for years now, mighty mage.”

            Gilgamesh fought back the urge to roll his eyes at the grovelling and gestured impatiently for the man to get to the point. The eyes of gods looked down on him with grave judgment as he passed yet another church, but he ignored the old marble statues as if they were nothing more than more dirt. Imro bowed slightly to them and muttered a quick prayer before speaking quickly, the words bursting from him like a river that had been dammed to long.

            “There's a Creoul.”

            The noise of the city seemed to stop for a second time that day. Merchants who'd been calling out there wares suddenly fell silent and gave Imro a dirty look, reaching up to pull tattered sheets over their wares. Whores, who had been talking loudly of the filthy things they'd do for money, seemed to disappear completely as if they'd become air, though Gilgamesh caught the coloured clothes that distinguished them rustling into nearby churches. Children simply froze and then let out loud, fearful wails, the ones with no parents covering their faces as if that would hide them.

            The light that had sparked in the eyes of some people seemed to wink out like dead stars, and the streets all emptied into the churches.

            Gilgamesh blinked as he took it all in, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Imro, who was sweating as if he were in a sauna. Rudy clutched Gilgamesh's arm, his gnarled hands shaking as he bowed his head and blessed himself.

            “What's a Creoul?”

            He'd heard that there were many unholy creatures living throughout the world, demons that scoured the earth for souls. Of course, in a village as small and superstitious as his, the scribes and wisemen ardently refused to speak of them, only saying that he should spit thrice and find his way to a godly place if he ever caught wind of such a creature. His rebellious nature couldn't allow him to listen to them, however, and goose bumps rose on Imro's flesh as he watched an interested glint surface in Gilgamesh's eyes.

            “Sir mage, did they not speak of such creatures to you at the Association?”

            Right. All full-fledged mages came from the Association, which was a school of sorts. Part school and part government. At the Association, mages were taught all sorts of things from using magic to making it so magic couldn't be used. They were also taught how to defend themselves from demons, and so were forced to learn the name, origins, and weaknesses of every demon in the world.

            From Imro's expression, it seemed it would be a bad thing for Gilgamesh to admit he had no idea what manner of a creature a 'Creoul' was. Evidently every person in the godforsaken city believed he knew the weaknesses of the demon.

            “Ah yes. Memory of the damned beast escaped me for a time. Of course I remember what it is. And what of it?”

            Imro let out a choked sound, if he couldn't believe Gilgamesh was asking.

            “What do you people wish of me, merchant?”

            He was forced to stop when he realized that Imro was no longer following him. He turned to see the seedy man standing alone in the middle of the street, quaking. He let out a slow sigh and turned around to fully face him, gently forcing Rudy to turn as well.

            “Please.”

            Imro fell to his knees on the hard cobblestone, his pale face an expression of deep despair. It was only then that Gilgamesh realized that there was something in the city folk's expressions other than hopelessness or sadness. Fear.

            “The demon comes to our city every night. It takes at least ten people and devours them from the inside out. You must know that out of all demons, the Creoul is the most cunning. It has...”

            Imro dipped his head, his eyes staring at something Gilgamesh couldn't see.

            “...intelligence. Demons love discord, and with its intelligence it causes more than any other demon could. It doesn't just quietly steal people.”

            Rudy opened his mouth in a soundless wail, shaking his head as if to stop Imro from saying anymore. Imro gave him a glance of pity, but continued regardless.

            “This...thing... wants us to feel less than human. It wants us to lose our dignity. So, rather than completely eating people, it peels off their skin.”

            Rudy buried his face in his hands and wept large, choking sobs. Imro's hands were knotted into fists in his hair and he shook like a rock in an earthquake. He shook so hard the few teeth in his mouth chattered. Gilgamesh frowned slightly as he took in the pair of them, their eyes both clouded over with something beyond his understanding.

            “To break our spirits, it impales those it eats. It impales them skinless in the city square.”

            Gilgamesh felt the first trickles of fear crawling down his spine.

            “Alright. I understand. You'd like me to get rid of this demon for you.”

            But Imro was beyond hearing. His breathing sped up and he began speaking faster and faster, tugging so hard on his hair that some of it came out between his fingers.

            “It burns them. It burns them and when the wind blows, we can smell the scent of burnt flesh all over the city. It's a warning and it's mocking. It's laughing at us because there's nothing we can do but die like stuck pigs with no dignity.”

            Gilgamesh tilted his head, a strange light entering his eyes as he fell silent and listened.

            “No one can leave, either. Once you've come over the mountain, you can never cross back to the other side. People have tried but...”

            The quick glance at Rudy that took in the man's missing tongue and eye told Gilgamesh all he needed to know.

            “How does it know if someone tries to leave?”

            Imro shuddered, slowly rising from the ground and staring nervously at the mist that lay over the cracked road.

            “It knows everything. It knows everyone that comes and goes with this mist. The mist is like a spider web. When something enters into it, The Skinner can feel everywhere it goes through this ground-cloud.”

            The Skinner. That must've been the name that the people called the Creoul. It tickled vaguely at the back of Gilgamesh's mind, as if he'd heard it somewhere in passing. It couldn't be...

            Imro must've seen the slight recognition on his face because he nodded slowly, as if confirming what Gilgamesh was thinking.

            “Everyone from the smallest village to the isolated islands north have heard of her. She's not the most powerful demon, or even the most cunning, but she's been around for longer than almost any to walk this earth. I've heard it's because she's good at avoiding mages.”

            Imro looked at Gilgamesh hopefully, and Gilgamesh immediately understood what he meant. If she'd spent so much time avoiding mages, it must mean that a mage could kill her. But Gilgamesh wasn't a mage, he was a simple village boy. Or so others would call him. 'Simple' wouldn't even be a consideration if he were to describe himself.

            A slow grin tugged at his lips. Now this was interesting. An infamous demon that every person to walk the earth had heard of? It was the perfect chance to prove himself, and the perfect first step to becoming a deeply respected, deeply feared king.

            “All right then.”

            His eyes barely moved, but he caught many people emerging from the churches, peering out at him curiously. He closed his eyes and raised both hands. The wind rose with them, playing around his fingers, twining itself like a snake. Then he opened his eyes and flipped both palms up. The wind roared in the directions his palms faced and sent mist scuttling from his feet like cockroaches.

            “All right then.”

            This time his voice was loud, loud enough for every person down the street to hear. Rudy, who'd been wailing and covering his ears, slowly uncovered them and looked down in wonder at the lack of mist.

            “I'll find whatever hole this 'Skinner' squats in, and I'll fill it with air so sharp a god's blade would seem like a blunt hammer.”

            He breathed in lightly, the air tickling his tongue, fresh and pure. Not a single scent was offered by the purest form of the wind; it was too free and lighthearted to carry anything.

            “My friend... let them see clearly. And let her see me coming.”

            The wind bellowed a war cry, and waged its battle on the mist. The mist was powerless against the great force, and it blew away like dust and feathers. Gilgamesh grinned arrogantly, crossing his arms and facing the crowd of people that had gathered behind him.

            “Now... let's see what we can do about this demon.”

            The hope in their eyes sparked once again.


	7. Chapter 7

As it turned out, the 'respectable place' Imro had spoken of was the home of a 'working girl.' In other words, it was the house of an expensive whore. However, despite Gilgamesh's initial disgust at the profession of the home's owner, there was no denying that the house—called a house because it was  much more than a shack—was rich, even by Gilgamesh's standards.

            It was a rose in a lineup of many thorns; houses on either side were the same precarious shacks with floors stacked on them as the rest of the city, but this house was a true two-story. Leading into it was a wide white stone platform with two steps, obsidian gargoyles snarling menacingly on either side. Marble pillars supported a deep green awning that would've shaded the stairs had there been any sun. The awning was in beautiful contrast with the colour of the house itself; the stone of it had been dyed a crimson and worked with leaves of gold.

            As Gilgamesh made his way tentatively up the cool stairs, he was both surprised and relieved to see that the house had no door; instead, a silk curtain swayed gently at the entrance. It fluttered once and he could make out a shape making her—definitely a her—way to the door. He blinked and squinted, forgetting Imro and Rudy for a second.

            The curtain fluttered a second time and he caught a glimpse of deep brown eyes thickly outlined in kohl, with full, long lashes rimming them. They were beautiful enough to take his breath away, and he was never one to dwell too long on the beauty of any person.

            “Have you brought guests for me, Imro?”

            The languid voice was a few tones lower than a usual woman's, and it had a sort of accent that Gilgamesh couldn't place. It twisted the vowels into a higher sound than usual and pronounced the consonants in a staccatoed manner. The accent somehow made the voice that much more seductive, and Gilgamesh shivered, goose bumps crawling along his skin.

            Imro bowed slightly, his shoulders suddenly looking much more relaxed, his face visibly relieved to be in her presence.

            “Yes, ma'am. I'm sure you've already heard of these two... lords. I was, of course, hoping that they could stay here and lounge to their heart's content until they're ready to put an end to our city's troubles.”

            The curtain moved to flutter a third time, but long, delicate hands wrapped around it and pulled it back to reveal the woman who'd been speaking.

            She was, in every sense of the word, beautiful. She was like a midnight flower that only opens for a few minutes a night, which is forbidden to open at any other time because such loveliness should not be seen in the daylight. Her silky dark hair caressed parts of her back to come to a rest bare inches above her waist, which was curved as softly as a feather. Her skin looked like it had drunken in the darkness surrounding her house and turned it gold; it was shades darker than most people's, but not dark enough to be called completely black. And her breasts...

            “My price may be too high for you, young mage. Perhaps a father or older brother would be better suited?”

            Try as he might, Gilgamesh couldn't hold back a slight blush at her intimation after she noticed the way he'd looked at her. He quickly turned his eyes away, desperately searching his mind for a distraction from the voluptuous beauty in front of him. She was more than Azra ever had been, more in every way, so he felt he couldn't speak to her the same way he'd spoken to the girl his age.

            “Forgive my eyes, ma'am, but I was observing your clothes.”

            His voice cracked horribly on the word clothes and he felt like it wouldn't be such a bad thing if one of the desert sinkholes he'd heard of opened under his feet at that moment and swallowed him. But the woman's smile was warm and understanding without a touch of pity, and the feeling quickly dissipated.

            “Of course. It's not every day one sees genuine Carkovian clothes.”

            He let his eyes rest on her long enough to take in the clothes he hadn't noticed before. Carkovian material was nothing like any other; it was thin and fluttery, like veil material, and often very brightly coloured. When one went to buy clothes from Carkovia made from the special cloth, it was mandatory that they had it tailored especially for them, as clothes were only made custom per person. Rumour had it that Carkovian cloth was very rare, and some even whispered that it was web from a Pellio, a small demon that lived in dark places and had habits much like a spider.

            The base part of the cloth on the woman, made of a deep citrus the colour of sunset, hugged her curves gently, covering her breasts, hips and legs, leaving only her stomach exposed. Even her nose and mouth were covered by the material, which made her eyes stand out all the more. More material, the colour of the sky on a hot day, floated around the base cloth in shimmering contrast, and the entire look made her seem as if she were floating, barely living in the same reality as anyone else.

            Imro coughed slightly and Gilgamesh realized he'd moved closer and was studying the material with great interest, his hand half raised to touch some of the excess cloth waving about. He blinked and stepped back quickly with a hastily muttered apology. The scent of her subtle perfume making his head feel strangely pleasant. That must've been the reason he was being so humble, he told himself.

            The woman simply looked amused, her eyes crinkling merrily in the corners as she made an expression that, had the veil not hid her mouth, probably would've been a smile.

            “It's been a while since I've met a man more interested in the material over my body than what lies under that material. You wouldn't happen to prefer men would you?”

            That gave Gilgamesh a start—she'd been mocking him this whole time and he'd been so distracted by her looks that he hadn't been able to respond properly. Realizing his ridiculousness, he slipped on his mask of arrogance and studied her more subjectively.

            She was old—maybe thirty, and though she was rich, she was still a whore. And the veil on her face—was she covering up some hideous feature? A large, disgustingly shaped nose? A mouth with irreparable scars? It didn't matter—no one was perfect on the outside, so there was no reason for him to feel uncomfortable. Even he had scars, though everything else about him was perfect.

            “Woman, do not dare mock me. I have no sexual preference because sex is a filthy act. Any who commit it as regularly as you do are also filth. Do not even presume that I find you remotely attractive. The only thing attractive about you is your clothes.”

            She blinked in surprise, then an expression he wasn't familiar with touched her deep eyes. Imro was making a low-pitched moan, but is seemed as if he wasn't even aware he was doing it. 

            “Tell me, young one, what is your goal?”

            The question caught Gilgamesh completely off guard, and it took him a few seconds to gather his thoughts. Why would she even ask such a thing? And, more importantly...what was his goal?

            “To... become the king.”

            “Oh? The king of what?”

            Her tone didn't sound mocking, and for that Gilgamesh felt a touch of respect. Most people would scoff in the face of a young man wanting to become king—it was a common dream, and one that many boys forgot when they grew to adulthood and discovered reality.

            Gilgamesh straightened, the small piece of sunlight managing to peek over the mountain playing games with the shadows on his face, giving him a look older than his years.

            “Of the entire continent of Teppgo.”

            Teppgo was the largest continent of the world, encompassing four major countries and a large portion of smaller cities and villages. There was a hierarchy of leaders, with each county having their own 'king', and separate large cities having what was like a king under the country's king, but called a dux. Under the dux were the usual leaders with no special names attached like 'king' or 'dux', who looked after smaller portions of cities and smaller villages. There was no such thing as a king of a continent, because the countries within the continent always fought among each other, every one hating the other three. Any who had ever tried to unite them had been torn apart by all of them.

            “I see.”

            Gilgamesh could read nothing from her voice, though Imro and Rudy seemed to have lost all sense of their jaws, which were hanging open in amazement from what they believed sheer stupidity. Gilgamesh had more or less made up what he'd do on the spot, but after he'd said it, he knew it had been his goal since he'd heard of it from his village wisemen. Any task that seemed impossible excited him.

            “I won't ask you how you plan on accomplishing this task, for surely the answer would be tedious and complicated. However, I would inquire as to why you'd like to become king, and what type of king you would be.”

            Gilgamesh hesitated longer than he had before, turning it over in his mind. There was a deeper reason in his soul for wanting to do it, other than simply to accomplish what could not be done by any mortal man. He glanced down at his hands, smooth and dry, unmarred by callouses or scars. They were the hands of a typical king.

            “I want to change the way people live. I want to make it so that everyone does only what they would do in public behind closed doors. I want to give people freedom... but not allow them to hide behind that freedom and use it as an excuse to do wrong.”         

            The interest in the woman's eyes seemed to be fading and she looked away, clearly bored.

            “The childish dreams of a boy who wishes to play god. You—”

            Nobody had time to blink in the span it took for Gilgamesh to slam his fist into the dense wall so hard that the crimson rivulets trickling from his fist matched the colour of the house.

            “Do not...”

            He pulled his fist away, ignoring the darkened smear it left against the house. The pain was there, but it was in the back of his mind, and he was already subconsciously numbing it the way he'd learned to do when his parents beat him.

            “...ever...”

            Imro had jumped but Rudy had grown quiet and was watching Gilgamesh with a strange intensity, as if listening to what he was about to say with his entire being. The woman seemed shocked and even a little afraid of the wind that had picked up and made the shadows from Gilgamesh's hair turn his eyes to scarlet oceans.

            “...speak of those filthy immortal mutts in my presence!”

            Everyone was frozen at the snarl, as once again Gilgamesh shocked them by insulting gods. Lenla had become quite religious since the Skinner had come, because some insisted that the gods sent demons when they were angered, so to see someone openly insulting the gods was like watching someone call out to the Skinner. Of course, Gilgamesh had already done so when he'd dispersed the mist, but the gods could send worse than the Skinner if angered enough.

            Gilgamesh knew this truth—he could read people the way he should've been able to read books, so he knew what people would think of his outburst—but the fact that the entire city had turned to the silent gods to save them made his blood boil. No god would even turn a pitying eye to this place.

            “I do not wish to be like one of those low-bred, classless statues! As a king, I will not abandon my people and let them suffer. I will hear each and every one of their cries, and I will do something about them. I will not leave them to their own devices, because they are like cattle that must be led. If I do not lead them correctly, they will stray from their path.

            But that's okay. I will know it if they stray, and I will stop them from doing so, while still allowing them freedom. I will lead them—guide them—but I will not shove them down the path. I'll simply guide them to the path and let them know if they're straying from it. That way, I can teach every person in this continent how to live rather than force them into it.”

            The woman examined Gilgamesh closely and took a step forward. Her perfume was heady and made Gilgamesh feel slightly numb in the head, but he clung to his wits and passions with the care of a florist clinging to a delicate plant.

            “Your ideals are contradictory. For one person not to suffer, another will. You say you'll give them freedom, but then you say you will not allow them to stray. You say you're teaching them, but you're forcing them down the right path. You know nothing of this world, yet you pretend to be able to change it with such ease.

            In order to keep the balance of this world, there must be suffering. Even if you cured it, everyone will take happiness for granted. What, then, will you do?”

            Gilgamesh fell silent for a long time. Imro looked back and forth between him and the woman, clearly confused, the topic too deep for him to dwell upon. Rudy looked as thoughtful as a man with one eye could, and he idly scratched his empty socket, starting in surprise only when the yellow began trickling down his face like hot tears.

            “Suffering is a necessity of life.”

            Gilgamesh looked down at his hand as he spoke, probing his wound and wincing as the scab that had been forming cracked and blood once again dribbled into his open palm.

            “When I say I mean to end it, I mean that I will end unnecessary suffering. I cannot put an end to sicknesses, deaths, heartbreak, and pain. Those all come with life, and I don't wish to take away any experience of living. If I wanted to stop those things, I'd also have to stop health, life, love, and pleasure. However...

            Parents hurting their children, men laying unwanted hands on women, one person keeping another locked up... these are things that can be prevented. Perhaps not in the sheep of today, but if I can make a continent where the lambs of tomorrow are raised with the right ideals, then you will know change. And I know it is possible. Sheep follow, they don't lead.”

            Rudy nodded slowly and reached out to lay a hand on Gilgamesh's shoulder. Gilgamesh started for an instant, giving the old man a slightly annoyed glance before his expression softened and he rested his bloody hand on top of the old man's. There was a certain understanding in both of their eyes.

            The woman cleared her throat to get Gilgamesh's attention, folding her hands together so that her clothes gently settled around her like clouds. She kept her voice neutral, but there was a certain hint of... interest, perhaps?

            “I see. But what of destiny and fate?”

            Gilgamesh's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly but Rudy caught it as Gilgamesh brushed his hand off rather roughly to speak to the woman.

            “That is no freedom. That's forcing a person into something greater than themselves because you've messed up and need a hero to correct your own misdoings.”

            It was evident he was speaking of the gods.

            “For that reason, when I die, I will smash down the principles of destiny and fate. I will go to the realm of gods and I will kill every one of them if need be. I'm not afraid to get blood on my hands, even if it's immortal blood.” 

            With his fists clenched so tightly, his wound was having trouble scabbing over and his hand was now almost completely painted red. The woman stared deep into his eyes, her own glinting dangerously. They stared each other down for a moment, neither side willing to look away first. Imro broke the contest with a loud cough.

            “The question is, ma'am... will you let this mage and his companion stay?”

            The woman's eyes suddenly changed to businesslike, and she straightened, giving both Rudy and Gilgamesh a quick once over.

            “Once I've gotten some food into them and bathed them, they'll be allowed into my house. Until then, I cannot accept my house being defiled by the state of them.”

            Gilgamesh glared at her, looking down his nose disdainfully.

            “You dare to say we are filth, woman?”

            She seemed amused again, but Gilgamesh didn't lose his temper. It would do no good to throw a tantrum like a child in front of a woman who watched with the eyes of a hawk to see if his age would betray him.

            “First, my name is Freya, and you may address me as such. Second, I assume you wish the place you stay at to have high standards, do you not, Your Grace?”

            From the way the veil across her face shifted, it was obvious that Freya was smirking. Gilgamesh knew that any attempt to rebuff what she'd just said would seem childish, so he simply made a grand movement with his hand.

            “If you're already aware of my circumstances and opinions, Freya, then have two baths and a feast fit for myself brought out. I'll expect more than simple bread and cheese, I'll have you know.”

            She inclined her head a little too exaggeratedly and disappeared behind the curtain, her clothing making soft sounds as it brushed the light material.

            Imro's shoulders visibly slumped in relief and he took out a gray handkerchief to pat his sweating brow. His lips were pressed in a thin line, making his skinny face seem skeletal.

            “That woman has a temper like fire, sir mage. I'm surprised she didn't lose it on you. I guess it isn't too far of a stretch to say you'd like to be king in this age though...”

            Gilgamesh turned to Imro, eyes narrowing in curiosity.

            “What do you mean 'in this age'? Is there something that would prevent me from becoming king in ages past?”

            Imro ran his tongue over his bloodless lips nervously, dabbing at his brow with slightly more force than necessary.

            “You must know, of course, that mages becoming kings were unheard of before this last decade. It was considered too much to be both a king and a mage. That is, until the king of our country seized the throne and made it his own.”

            Gilgamesh had always thought it a rumour. The 'Witch King' of the country of Lim. A king none could stand against because not only was he a king, but he was considered one of the most powerful mages from the Association. It was said by some that he was immortal, and that no other person could ever rise up to take the throne against a man like that.

            “It does seem a great challenge.”

            The wind shook around him as if in silent laughter.

            “But I've promised you to kill them all, my friend. So I'll include that one.”

            The wind fell silent as if contemplating. It was only then that Gilgamesh realized he'd been speaking aloud. Rudy and Imro watched him in confusion, wondering what he was speaking of. He hastily covered his slip up by turning to the doorway.

            “How long does it take to prepare two baths and a meal?”

            “Actually, sir mage, though I'm sure it takes less time with magic, it normally takes quite a while.”

            Gilgamesh waved the explanation away as a figure made its way through the dancing curtain.

            “It's about ti—”

            The figure was not, in fact, Freya. A young boy—perhaps seven or eight?—parted the curtain with an exuberant kick and leapt outside, giving the three standing there a large grin. A grin that was missing teeth in places, but more from youth than from malnutrition, it seemed.

            “Hiya, misters! I heard there's a king and one of his men staying with us! I know Imro so the king must be...”

            The boy scrutinized Rudy and Gilgamesh carefully, taking in their clothes and looks. While he examined them, Gilgamesh examined him in slight amusement, reminded of the brutally honest children from his village. The boy finally shrugged and pointed at Gilgamesh.

            “I figure it's gotta be you, mister. The old man is too gross. But you're pretty young to be a king... Oh well. If Mama says it's true, it's probably true.”

            He grinned brightly again, tilting his head to one side, causing his messy hair to spill across his face. He was a strange looking child—his skin wasn't exactly pale, but it was light, and had a ruddy glow to it. Freckles kissed his face and bare arms in large quantities, nearly the same colour as his odd hair. It was a hair colour Gilgamesh had never seen before; it wasn't exactly red but not completely orange either. It was rather like a dark bronze with hints of copper throughout.

            “Your Mama must be Freya, but you don't resemble her...”

            Gilgamesh trailed off, unsure of how he should address the bright, fairly bouncing boy. The grin never left his face as he let out a loud laugh, his hair flopping back to where it had originally been, which was sticking out in a crazy fashion from the side of his head.

            “I'm Makillanellakano.”

            He said his name so fast that Gilgamesh couldn't catch a single syllable, nor did he feel like it would provide much help if he did. The boy's chocolate eyes sparkled as he watched annoyance cross Gilgamesh's face at not being able to pronounce such a ridiculous name.

            “What manner of name is that, boy? Give me a better one to call you by or I'll call you mutt for the rest of your days.”

            The boy seemed surprised at the arrogance in Gilgamesh's tone, but he shrugged his bony shoulders nonchalantly.

            “You can call me Maki. My brother's pretty simple so he can't pronounce my name either. Oh, and neither of us look like Mama. We both look like our Papas. Or so Mama says. I've never met either one of our Papas so I'm not too sure.”

            Imro choked at the innocent insult to Gilgamesh's intelligence and backed away as if he expected Gilgamesh to tear the child apart with the wind that trembled about him. Of course, the wind was trembling in laughter rather than anger.

            “Your brother? What kind of person is he?”

            Gilgamesh knew that it would be better to simply ignore childish ignorance. The child didn't know what he was saying so the blame didn't lie with him. The woman who raised him to be so bold, however...

            “Maki!”

            The curtain was shoved aside so roughly that Gilgamesh half expected it to be torn. The deep voice that had spoken had an odd accent, quite unlike Freya and Maki's. It wasn't like any people who'd passed through his village either.

            “I got bathtub!”

            The young man who stood in front of them now was carrying an entire wooden bath himself, his thick arms wrapped around it tightly. Gilgamesh tilted his head to one side studiously, examining the hulking boy in front of him who couldn't be more than a couple years his elder.

            “I put it here?”

            He moved with a strange jerkiness as he made his way carefully down the steps, setting down the heavy tub with a grunt. When he straightened, Gilgamesh saw that he was even larger than he'd first been led to believe. The boy towered above the four others in his presence, and his shoulders were so broad he could almost be called a giant.

            “Yeah, that's good, Freb! Now you go get the other one while I fill this one.”

            Freb nodded and looked as if he were about to leave, before giving a start and turning to Gilgamesh. His face was rather normal looking, save the half-vacant smile he wore. He was obviously the simple brother Maki had mentioned, but he seemed worse than simple—he seemed downright clueless about life. He took a toddling step forward, making Imro and Rudy back away warily, but Gilgamesh stood his ground.

            The great beast of a boy made his way up the steps until he towered over Gilgamesh, at least two heads taller. Gilgamesh looked up at him neutrally and crossed his arms.

            “Is there something you'd like, boy?”

            Brains weren't all a man had to watch out for in an opponent; great strength could also prove deathly if underestimated. And a simpleton with great strength was even worse—many couldn't control their strength so they went all out, regardless of how much it could injure their body. For this reason, talking in a voice that may provoke someone so huge was downright foolhardy. But Gilgamesh didn't seem particularly bothered.

            “You glowing!”

            The words were stunted and sounded thick, as if Freb had wool in his mouth. But wonder was still easily discernible from them, and he took one hesitant step closer to Gilgamesh, stretching out his hand.

            “Freb! I told you not to speak!”

            Freya dashed out of the house, her clothes themselves seeming frantic as they billowed around her. Her veil was half-off, revealing half of her face. It was beautiful, Gilgamesh noted begrudgingly, but only for a second because the look on it surprised him.

            Her eyes were wide with such great fear that her pupils seemed to turn them black, and a frantic anxiety twisted her face to the point where it seemed she would cry. She streaked between Gilgamesh and Freb and struck Freb's hand so hard Gilgamesh could hear the loud sound of skin against skin echo through his ears.

            “Don't you touch him, boy, you hear me?! You go back into that house and you don't come out! You never come out! If I ever see you near this mage again I'll have your ears! I told you not to talk! I told you!”

            Her face switched from fear to anger in a split second, and one of her delicate hands cut through the air as she brought it down to slap Freb across the shocked, pale face. Imro had taken a step forward with a trembling hand outstretched to stop her, but halted immediately, swallowing and stumbling back so fast he tripped and fell onto his backside on the cold marble. Rudy even stepped back, his own face a mask of fear when he saw what was going on, as he stared at something behind her.

            Freya had been about to strike a viscous blow to the side of Freb's head, but her hand was halted inches from his face by another hand that stood out in stark contrast with her skin.

            She slowly turned, her mouth open to speak, but froze when she saw the look on Gilgamesh's face.

            His eyes had deepened from the colour of fresh blood to the colour of blood that had darkened under the moonlight on the night of a war. His mouth was curled into such a bestial snarl that a lion would bow submissively and back away with his tail between his legs if he saw it. His entire body was shivering with barely suppressed rage, and blood lust radiated from him like the light from an angry torch.

            “Do not raise your hand against your child.”

            His voice, normally so smooth it would glide against the ear like honey, had become sharp enough to carve gouges into bone.

            His hand gripped Freya's wrist so tight that she could feel fingers of coldness wrapping themselves around her own hand from lack of circulation. The fear that had touched her eyes before was nothing compared to the stark terror that seized her entire countenance as she cowered from him, the knowledge of death in her eyes.

            “Don't hurt Mama.”

            Only the voice of someone who didn't realize the danger in Gilgamesh's posture drifted through the still air. The wind itself had gone silent at Gilgamesh's outburst and even the snarls of the gargoyles seemed like snarls of panic instead of guardianship.

            “Forgive me, my Lord.”

            Freya's voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed her. They were searching Gilgamesh's with the desperation of prey looking for a weakness in a predator.

            “Let Mama go.”

            Freb's voice had risen to a low whine as he shook his finger at Gilgamesh, apparently forgetting the fact that his mother had been about to strike him. The expression on Gilgamesh's face slowly faded away as he looked down at the bruise that was already spreading out from his fingers, turning the dark flesh a shade darker with a purple hue.

            “Very well. I'll let her go. But I don't think I can forgive someone so low that they beat their own child.”

            Freya blinked as Gilgamesh slowly opened his hand, and she pulled it back cautiously as if she expected any sudden movements to bring Gilgamesh's anger back.

            “I've never hit him before. It's just...”

            She averted her eyes, rubbing her wrist unconsciously.

            “I'd heard that one of the jobs of a mage was to ensure that the human race survives. In order to do that, I've heard they... they kill people like my son, who are simpleminded. Because they don't want people like my son to reproduce and make more simpleminded people. I thought that if I could hide it...”

            She trailed off, shifting uneasily as she looked at her son. There was something in her eyes—in the way she looked at Freb—that Gilgamesh had never seen before. It was like a fierce protectiveness, but also a sort of gentleness. It seemed quite the contradictory expression, so Gilgamesh put it to the back of his mind.

            “I see. You don't have to worry about me doing a thing to him, Freya. With that kind of strength, I'd much rather have him as a subject than a corpse.”

            And that was all. Everyone looked astonished at his nonchalant reaction, but he shrugged it off. He supposed people from the Association should make a big deal of it, but he was so hungry that he could no longer care how he was seen. His stomach chose that moment to let out a growl that could rival an earthquake, and Freya quickly bowed slightly and hurried back into the house.

            Freb, who was more or less unaware of the tension that had just coated the air like sawdust, looked at Gilgamesh with an innocuous grin and reached out again. Gilgamesh stood as still as the gargoyles while the boy extended the tips of his fingers to touch Gilgamesh's silky hair.

            “Soft!”

            His exclamation was shocked and joyous, and he sunk his whole hand into Gilgamesh's golden locks, stroking the boy's head like a cat's. Gilgamesh closed his eyes and let out an annoyed but resigned sigh, shaking his head a bit.

            Maki, who had missed the entire affair, stumbled out from inside with a bucket of water that was only about half full. From the amount of water soaked into his clothes, it seemed like the entire bucket had been full whenever he'd first acquired it.

            “Hiya again! Seems like Freb likes your hair, king boy. I've never seen hair the colour of gold either, so I hope you wouldn't mind terribly if I touched it as we—”

            His voice shook at the end as he unknowingly reached the end of the platform and balanced precariously on the edge of the steps, the water bucket tipping dangerously. Gilgamesh was powerless to stop him from falling—he was too far away to get to before he fell.

            “Wind—”

            But it wasn't necessary. Rudy moved with a startling quickness for an old man, and managed to grab Maki's shoulder and steady him enough so that he didn't tumble down, bucket and all.

            “Thanks, old man! You saved me from getting a tongue lashing from Mama. Hey, we should be friends, you and I! Oh, and the king boy. I've always wanted to meet a king, and this one's a boy only a couple of years older than me! It's great!”

            His voice squeaked as he grinned at Gilgamesh, who was gritting his teeth to keep from yelling at the simpleton messing up his hair, and Rudy, who was trying his best to wipe the yellow stream from his withered cheek but failing because it continued trickling down.

            Rudy gave up and looked at Maki, shrugging his shoulders and gesturing to his mouth.

            “Oh, you can't talk? That's okay. Freb can't talk very well so I'm good at understanding people even when they don't talk.”

            Rudy blinked and his lips cracked in a toothless grin, making him seem like a hideous, grinning skull. Maki finally made it to the ground—after spilling another quarter of the bucket—and poured the remaining water into the tub. It made a hollow sloshing sound, and it had a kind of certainty that it would take many more buckets to fill the wide tub.

            He turned back to Rudy, offering his own grin, which was missing its fair share of teeth.

            “Great! I'm happy to be your friend too.”

            Gilgamesh looked back and forth between the two, an idea slowly forming in his head. It seemed that this child had plenty of experience dealing with people who said little in words but much in other ways.

            His eyes flickered to Freb, who had finally ceased petting him and was stumbling out with another heavy wooden tub. The muscles on his arms stood out, bulging like a blacksmith's. Despite being simple, the large boned boy was more useful than half of the people he'd met with a decent brain.

            “Freb. Maki.”

            The two boys paused in what they were doing, Freb still holding the tub with an apparent ease.

            “I'm in need of subjects.”      

            Freb didn't seem to get it, but Maki clapped his hands together excitedly, his eyes sparkling.        

            “Are you saying you want me and Freb to join your kingdom?”

            Gilgamesh looked at Rudy out of the corner of his eye. The old man was watching him with an expression much more interested than any he'd shown all day. He and Maki had connected immediately, and it was obvious that he'd be happy to have someone who could understand him so well join him.   

            “I don't just want you to be a part of it. The first people to join me and show me loyalty will be able to stay in my palace as nobles working directly under me. I've already decided to make Rudy my scribe.”

            It was news to Rudy, and apparently exciting news, as the old man nodded vigorously and mimed writing things down.

            “Freb, will you help me build things? With your lifting abilities, I'm sure I can move mountains.”

            He wasn't sure if Freb took what he said literally or not, but the boy seemed delighted.

            “Yes, King!”

            “Perfect. And Maki... tell me, what is your specialty?”

            The exuberant boy leapt from foot to foot as he turned his eyes skyward in deep thought. It was a good thing there was nothing in the bucket he held, or else it would have spilled everywhere.

            “I can read, king boy! Scribes write, but I can be a... a... royal reader or something!”

            Reading... he definitely needed someone who could read. Someone to read him letters from important people, read his decrees to the people, read surrender term papers when his enemies sent them...

            “Very well. You will be something of a town crier for me, as well as a personal attendant. When I wish, you will read whatever letters or messages are sent to me. I will ensure that you are treated well.”

            Maki bobbed his head spiritedly, sending tufts around his head in a way that made some parts of his scalp have too much hair and some parts have too little. He had to be one of the messiest looking children Gilgamesh had ever seen. He was the messiest, Rudy was the most disgusting, and Freb was the simplest.

            And, as far as his first subjects went, they were perfect.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Once Rudy had been thoroughly washed, which took three bathtubs full of water, seven bars of soap, and a dozen washcloths, he didn't look half bad. At least, compared to what he'd looked like before. His skin was dry and weathered like tough, old leather that had been in the sun a day too long, and his sunken eye socket seemed to absorb the light. He was still scrawny, but clothed in the rich clothes Freya's father had left at her house, he more or less looked like a common old soldier.

            Gilgamesh, on the other hand, positively shone with a healthy glow after bathing and eating. His mood had lightened considerably, and his mind had sharpened enough to carry on a mature conversation about how to defeat the Skinner.

            “I'm telling you, you should at least wait until after you've rested! Tomorrow will be as good a day as any.”

            He, Imro, and Freya all sat around a table inside Freya's house. The house was the richest, sturdiest house Gilgamesh had ever had the pleasure to lay his eyes on, and it _was_ a pleasure.

            Past the rippling curtain lay a spacious hall with pearl-coloured marble pillars clouded with streaks of grey. The floor was the same colour where it could be seen, though it was hard to see as a thick, soft carpet pleasing to the eyes and feet covered the vast majority of the hall. The carpet matched the outside of the house, and golden tassels tickled the arch of the foot when one came to close to the edge, as if warning whoever was walking that the warmth of the cloth would soon end in the coolness of stone.

            Freya led Gilgamesh and his company through this hallway, grinning slightly as they gaped at the colourful tapestries depicting various gods gently hanging against the pale walls, to a wide, straight staircase made of obsidian. Worked into the obsidian were hand-carved demons, who grinned and snarled all the way up the banister as everyone climbed, the smooth stone cool underfoot.

            When they reached the top, which was an open-concept balcony with only a thin wooden railing separating whoever stood at the top from certain death, the scent of incense tickled their noses and made Rudy sneeze.

            Gilgamesh had fought hard to keep the wonder from his face, but he wasn't sure he'd completely succeeded as Freya had glanced at him then turned to hide a smile with her hand. She'd abandoned the face veil as soon as they'd passed the curtain, muttering something about it being too hot.

            When they'd reached the expansive room which seemed like a huge bed surrounded by walls rather than a bedroom, Freya had turned and sent her two children off, not wanting to speak of such grave matters in front of them. Maki had grabbed Rudy's hand and dragged him along as well, though Rudy hadn't minded.

            The only thing not covered in plush pillows and silky sheets was a small, wooden table settled in the middle of the room, surrounded by square pillows that were slightly harder than the other ones. That was where she had offered him and Imro seats, and that was where they were settled quite comfortably now, discussing how to deal with the Skinner.

            “Rest or no, it will be the wind that will tear apart the demon, not me. I'm only going to be there to ensure that the beast doesn't somehow stop the wind from the killing it. If I desired it, the wind could be shredding her right now, but I want to watch her die as confirmation that she really is dead.”

            A crude square carved out of the wall in a window allowed the wind to play with the cloth around the room as it listened. It had no opposition to Gilgamesh's idea, but Imro and Freya certainly did.

            “Think about it!” That was Freya. “Many mages have thought the same, but she's managed to escape them and live this long. You should at least be prepared in case something goes wrong.”

            Imro nodded in agreement, though Gilgamesh imagined he'd agree with anything the beautiful woman said, even if she wished for him to kill himself.

            “Madam’s right, sir mage. I don't think it's a good idea to fight a demon in the middle of the night. That's her territory, anyway. I heard all demons are stronger in the dark, so you should at least wait until the sun has no chance of setting while you're still fighting. We need to come up with a strategy before we charge in blindly.”

            “And let ten more people be skinned alive? These are the lives of people you've shared a city with for years! I won't allow any more to die from scum I can crush in a few minutes. A night's rest isn't worth ten lives, even if it's for me.”

            Gilgamesh rose and began to pace impatiently, his brow furrowed in thought. He couldn't think of any way to stop the demon from taking more lives save killing the demon tonight. It was the best strategy to use on such short notice.

            “When you're king, you're going to need to make sacrifices. Ten lives are nothing in the face of ten nights, where a hundred will be killed. Or an entire red moon's cycle, where thirty six and five thousand are killed. If you die tonight, there won't be another mage for at least a year. Are you willing to risk the lives of so many for ten?”

            Gilgamesh stopped pacing back and forth and turned to the window, letting out an irritated sigh, annoyed at the way he was being questioned.

            “If I didn't think I could win, I wouldn't try. My life is worth more than thirty six and five million. It's not about sacrifices or strategies. I have no need of such things! All I need is ten minutes alone with the demon and all will be fine.”

            “My god, you don't even care about the lives of the people, do you?”

            The angry incredulity of Freya's voice made Gilgamesh turn to her. His eyes were as cold and calm as a beautiful lake. To compare them to a lake like glass was appropriate, Freya realized, as such beautiful things never held life in them.

            “I don't understand what you're talking about. I'm doing it for them.”

            Freya rose, keeping her eyes locked to his.

            “If you were doing it for them, you would wait. And the spark in your eye would carry a certain grimness, not excitement!”

            It was true; he could barely hold back an almost feverish excitement from the prospect of seeing a creature the gods themselves had forsaken. His pacing, the way his words cut through the air like a whip, and the slight trembling in his hands that Freya had initially thought to be anger at the deaths of so many... it was all excitement.

            “Do not presume to explain my own emotions to me, whore. You should know your place in this room—the bottom. Someone like you doesn't even deserve to share a table with me.”

            Freya studied the boy who resumed his pacing, his eyes gazing far into the distance, as if already seeing his victory over the demon. She could allow anger to overtake her and take it out on him, but she had more experience with men than almost anyone in the city, so she knew it would do no good.

            That in itself was probably an excuse. The truth was, she could sense that something was very broken within the boy's soul. He hadn't so much as flinched at the prospect of seeing a demon that skinned people alive for amusement. Instead, he himself seemed amused at the fact that he'd be able to defeat the demon and gain a reputation. For a boy of twelve, he was incredibly hardened against death.

            If it had been just that, she might have been able to tear him apart with her words, break him down so that he became softer. But it wasn't.

            She'd heard the gentleness in his voice when he'd spoken to Maki and Freb, seen a kind glimmer despite the fact that he'd spoken so arrogantly. And Imro had told her of how he'd come to have such high demands of the poor merchant; he had been angered by the fact that Imro had struck Rudy.

            For that reason, she knew that he wasn't simply hardened; he was broken. He was broken and distrustful towards people who had any form of power. Because Rudy, Maki, and Freb were all powerless, he felt safe enough to be around them.

            “What happened to you?”

            It was too low for Gilgamesh to hear, so he turned and gave her a questioning look, arching one eyebrow and standing in a way that made it seem as if he considered her stupid.

            Someone must have betrayed him so horribly that they had completely shattered his concept of warmth and trust. That was why he felt the need to make people he felt safe to be around his 'subjects'; if he held power over them, he could ensure that they didn't abuse him. The look in his eyes when she'd been about to strike Freb lent her a vital clue into his past.

            “Nothing. Forgive me, then. If you wish to fight tonight, do so. It's your choice, of course.”

            Prying would only make him close up more. She knew the type. If she wanted to help him, the best way would be to play along with his game and show no sign of betraying him. Given enough time, she could warm his heart so that he could trust again.

            That way, she could let him take her sons on his journey to kingship with no regrets. Though it saddened her, her sons were growing quickly and would soon want to go on great quests like the knights in the stories. She'd already seen the world, seen its cruelness and its loveliness, and now it was their turn to experience it. Her intuition told her that the best way to allow them to do so was to let them follow Gilgamesh.

            “That was a rather quick agreement, but I suppose my powers of persuasion are impressive even to a whore.”

            One side of Gilgamesh's mouth quirked up in a cocky grin as he looked down at Imro, who'd let out a sigh and nodded in agreement with Freya, as expected. Convincing them to let him at the demon took much less time than he'd expected—Freya seemed to have taken a liking to him.

            It made no difference, however. Now that she'd agreed, it was time to see what he and the wind could do in their partnership. He glanced down at his foot briefly, feeling a slight comfort at the sight of Azra's veil tied around it, before nodding and allowing his true emotions to surface.

            The smile on his face changed from arrogance to true excitement, making his entire expression blossom into a glowing picture of a young boy's excitement. He was fighting a demon at the age of twelve. Not just any demon, either—the Skinner. A famous demon feared by all who heard of it. Once he killed it, he would quickly grow in renown, and people would respect him so much that kingship couldn't be far off.

            The expression struck a sudden fear in Freya’s heart as she watched him murmur to the wind, raising a hand to let it twine around his fingers. It was so _young_. No matter what his soul held, no matter how much hurt he’d experienced, he’d still only experienced a few years of it. There was so much more he had yet to do; learn true friendship, grow into manhood, fall in love, see the beauty of hidden places untouched by man… And it was possible she was sending him to his death.

            “You may fight, but you must bring Imro with you.”

            Had the moment not been so serious, she would’ve laughed heartily at the shocked expressions on both of their faces. Imro seemed to fade into himself, and his eyes looked so large in his face that he seemed almost demon-like. Gilgamesh, to his credit, had quickly hidden his shock, but for a moment she had seen a flash of vulnerability that betrayed his age.

            “Absolutely not. Look at the man, he’ll be a liability!”

            Imro, who had always agreed with what Freya said, now nodded in agreement with Gilgamesh. Truth be told, she would’ve never sent the pitiful merchant with the golden-haired boy if he was what he seemed. But he wasn’t—he had, in fact, lead a band of old soldiers and merchants against the demon once.

After his wife and daughter had been taken from him, he had given himself to rage rather than grief, and he had roused all those whose families had also been killed. They had taken up arms against the demon, carrying their swords and torches to the large, elderly tree that stunk of death.

No one knew what the band had seen; all they knew was that only two had returned alive. Imro and a woman whose six sons had all perished under the claws of the Skinner. Imro’s back had been torn so badly the healers didn’t think he’d make it through the night, and the woman hadn’t made it through the night; the gaping wounds where both of her arms had been bled too thoroughly.

It may not seem like something that would inspire confidence, and it wouldn’t be, had Imro not been clutching a brittle, dark thing in his hand. The thing was weathered, twisted, and reeked faintly of something rotting. And on one end, there was an exceptionally long, exceptionally dangerous-looking talon.

“There is a weakness. There is.”

That was all Imro had said before passing into an unconsciousness that had gripped him for many weeks afterward. In his fevered screaming throughout those weeks, those two sentences came up again and again. The Skinner had a weakness and Imro knew what it was.

“Imro has met the demon. He can take you to her hiding hole and show you how to wound her.”

            That gave Gilgamesh a pause. His eyes tracked over Imro’s cowardly countenance, examining everything from his lack of hair and teeth to his scrawny, hunched body as the man tried to make himself seem as small and useless as possible.

            “The wind could guide me, but it can’t speak back to me the way a man could. I suppose a guide wouldn’t hurt.”

A small keening sound issued from Imro’s mouth as Gilgamesh rose, eager to be off.

“May I have a minute with our good friend?”

Freya kept her tone light and slightly subservient, though it pained her to do so. She hated acting as if she were less than anyone, but speaking with the sobbing man in front of her was important and she couldn’t allow Gilgamesh to hear what she was about to say.

“Listen, whore, this must be done no—”

Gilgamesh paused as a cloud passed over Freya’s face. A distinct prickling rose the hair on the back of his neck and he found himself unconsciously taking a step back as the small but strangely threatening woman rose. She took one step forward, and the sound her foot made when it sunk deep into the pillows made Gilgamesh jump slightly despite its quietness.

“No you listen to me, _brat_. I need to talk to this man and you will _not_ stop me. You will turn around, take five steps until you are out of the room, and then you will wait until I’m finished. If you so much as raise one more protest about this fact, I will throw both you and the old man you dragged in here with you to the street. Do not test me.”

He found himself doing exactly what she’d said before a coherent thought formed in his mind. He’d never heard someone speak the way she’d spoken—it wasn’t a malicious glee or a lustful anger. It was simply a strangely threatening anger that made him feel both stubborn and thoroughly shamed. Chastised in a way he’d never felt after a whipping. For the first time in his life, Gilgamesh felt like normal child who’d been scolded by his mother. A small sigh escaped his lips; he wouldn’t be able to call Freya a whore ever again.

*~*~*~*~*

“Imro, look at me.”

The man silently refused, avoiding her eyes with a weak wince. He played the part of such a coward, and though it was possible that the ordeal with the Skinner had made him that way, Freya couldn’t help but feel most of it was an act.

“I’m not asking you to die for the boy. I’m only asking you to help him live.”

Imro turned to her at that, and his eyes were burning. At first glance it would seem like deep-rooted hatred, but past the hatred Freya could see the pain and sorrow threatening to overwhelm him. This was a man who had lost everything, who had nothing left to live for. And yet he still clung to life as if hoping maybe someday it would be worth living for. That was why she couldn’t believe he was as cowardly as he claimed; living for nothing took more bravery than facing a thousand demons.

“If I go with him, the most likely scenario is that we’ll both die. A boy is still a boy, even if he is a mage, and he needs rest. Rest and a briefing on the creature’s physique. Charging in blindly when that… that thing is the strongest will only get him killed, no matter who he is.”

The knowledge that the timid merchant was probably right weighed heavily on Freya’s mind. The young king-to-be was acting rashly, but one look into his cold eyes told Freya that nothing she said could change his mind. He would certainly pay some sort of price tonight, but the question was… Would he still be alive to learn from it when the sun rose the next day?

“I loathe to ask this of you, Imro. You know I do. But… I need you to remember. I need you to think back to that night and remember what the ‘weakness’ you spoke of was.”

Imro fell silent for so long Freya wondered if he’d even heard her. She opened her mouth to speak again but was cut off as Imro answered in a quivering, subdued voice.

“Rock. We cut her with our swords, but it didn’t really seem to do anything. By the end, we’d all lost our weapons and had given up hope. Who could have hope in the face of a creature that was seemingly immortal? But Annalise…”

He paused, bowing his head. Freya gazed out the window, pretending she didn’t see the tears in his eyes. Annalise, the woman who had lost all of her sons. She had been a great warrior, and losing her had been a shocking blow to the entire city’s morale. If the Skinner could kill her, it could kill anyone. Imro had been particularly fond of her, in an almost brotherly sort of way.

“The Skinner was about to kill me. She’d already made the wound I had when I came back, and she was going to slice my stomach open. She told me she wanted me to see my guts before I died, because human intestines were beautiful…”

He drew in a shaking breath and glanced up, his eyes far away.

“Annalise drew up behind her while she was distracted with only a sharp stone. I don’t think she had much hope, but she tried her best anyway. She brought the rock down as hard as she could on that thing’s hand. But instead of laughing the way she did when we used our swords, the Skinner screamed.

She turned on Annalise and took both of her arms in rage, but instead of resuming her slaughter of us, she left. I don’t know why we were spared… maybe the gods, maybe something else. All I know is that Annalise managed to take a part of the Skinner. One finger. One finger cost us twelve lives.”

Imro’s voice grew bitter and he stood up, his eyes returning to the present.

“Twelve great warriors couldn’t even manage to take one hand from the demon. How could you expect a boy barely older than your youngest son to take on the whole thing himself without preparation? Freya, please don’t misunderstand. I agreed with you only because the boy seems to have a death wish. But to get me involved as if you think he has a chance…”

Freya stood up too now, her height matching Imro’s but her presence surpassing him. She crossed her arms over her breasts and tilted her head up to look down her nose at him.

“He has a chance.”

Imro made as if to speak again but one languid hand-raise from Freya shut him up.

“The reason I’m sending you with him isn’t because he has a chance now. It’s because I want him to live through this and learn so that he can have a chance later. Let him get a look at her, let him even fight her a little, but when the time is right, get him away from her. I’m not expecting anything big, I’m just expecting him to be alive for tomorrow.”

Imro gazed into her eyes for longer than many would’ve imagined he could, before he slowly nodded, his gaunt face taking on a haunted look.

“Very well. I’ll do what I can. But I can promise you one thing; you will regret this.”

*~*~*~*~*

 Gilgamesh looked up, impatience written all over his face as he turned to the two exiting the room.

“Are you finished your ‘chat’? For people who believe demons get stronger as the night grows, you certainly have less problems talking the night away than anyone would expect.”

Imro shot a meaningful glance at Freya, not lost on Gilgamesh, before walking past him at a slow shuffle to mount the top of the stairs. He rested one hand on the bannister, and anyone could see that it was trembling quite hard. Gilgamesh let out a small, haughty laugh under his breath and was about to follow the hopeless man when a screech stopped everyone.

“Idiiiiiiiiiiiiiot!”

They turned to see Rudy and Maki at the end of the hall. It seemed their bond had deepened even further in the brief time they’d been speaking; Maki was now perched precariously on Rudy’s shoulders, with only the old man’s weathered hands clinging to his ankles to support him.

“…is what Rudy wants to say.”

Maki laughed as Rudy frantically shook his head, but had to stop because the boy was slipping from his shoulders.

“Just kidding. But you are guys really going without saying goodbye? Mama says that’s rude.”

The corner of Gilgamesh’s eyes turned to Freya, who had at first started in surprise but was now desperately trying to hide laughter. His own mouth quirked at the corners as he rose up to his full height and strode over to Maki and Rudy.

“You’re right. It _would_ be rude… if I wasn’t me. Nothing I do can be rude because I’m going to own the world.”

Maki regarded Gilgamesh with a very serious look, scrunching his eyes and nose in deep thought. Everyone waited, even Freya, to see what the young boy would have to say about that. What would win out; arrogance or brutal honesty?

“Okay. I guess it isn’t rude then. But! Even if it isn’t rude, you should still say it. You have to say, ‘I’m going to do some king business. I’ll be back soon. See you later Rudy and Maki!’”

He glared stubbornly at Gilgamesh, who seemed to be considering it. Freya shot Maki exasperated look; there was no way he’d say it. Even Imro had paused in his worrying for a second to observe what Gilgamesh’s response would be.

“Alright. I’m going to do some king business. I’ll be back soon.”

On impulse, he reached up and ruffled the grinning kid’s hair. Before he turned to leave, he also clapped an encouraging hand on Rudy’s shoulder. Everyone besides Maki seemed absolutely shocked, even Gilgamesh himself, though he quickly concealed it as he walked a little too quickly past Imro.

“See you later Rudy and Maki.”

He raised one hand without looking back, wondering why he’d felt more fondness for the boy and the old man in that moment than he’d felt for almost anyone in his village during the entire time he’d been there. He hadn’t had enough life experience to realize it was because there’d never been anyone waiting for him to come home before.

“That was actually pretty cool, king boy.”

Freb toddled out of one of the rooms as Gilgamesh and Imro reached the bottom of the stairs. He leaned over the bannister and gave a huge wave.

“Bye, king! Come back!”

Gilgamesh didn’t turn around, but the ghost of a real smile touched his face as he whispered.

“I will.”


End file.
